


A Nug Called Bartholome/Fidget

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, and there's a nug, aw yis it's a crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest thief in all of Thedas falls in with the Inquisition and sets his eye on a new prize-- the Herald of Andraste.</p><p>Niccolò Trevelyan enlists Volpe's aid to help him find an ancient artifact that could mean the end of Corypheus.</p><p>And Dorian Pavus and the Iron Bull adopt a nug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Gil Loots a Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZerosGirl01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZerosGirl01/gifts).



 

The Inquisition were stupid. Well, they were strong, and many, but yes—stupid. Their battlefields were always littered with the best armor, the best weapons, the best medicines, and because they were always so busy picking up their dead and tending their wounded, the abandoned gear was ripe for the taking. No wonder they were constantly ill-supplied, but their negligence suited Gilberto just fine.

The elf picked his way across the battlefield—a nasty bout with a stronghold full of Red Templars, by the looks of it, by the shoots of red lyrium that stood scattered across the snowy landscape like a wicked forest. Bodies lay strewn as far as even his eyes could see; he picked his way between them, seeking out officers or specialized troops for the valuable goods only they would be lucky enough to carry onto the field.

After an hour of slim pickings, he hit his jackpot—a mage. Gilberto rolled the man onto his back, whistling lowly at the copious amounts of blood sticking to his robes and leaving great red blossoms in the snow.

“Sorry, mate,” he murmured, reaching down to unclasp the mage’s leather pauldrons and open up his robes. “Andraste look after you.”

The mage hadn’t been carrying much—unfortunate for both of them. A little more gold would have filled Gilberto’s belly, and one more potion might have saved the poor sod’s life. Gilberto was prepared to give it up as a lost cause when he caught sight of a silver chain around the mage’s neck, twisted up and stuck beneath his head.

“Hello, pretty.” He undid the clasp and pulled it free, holding it up to the watery sunlight and whistling his appreciation. “ _Shit_ , mate. How’s a dead man on a battlefield come across a magister’s pendant? You know how much this’ll sell for?” He nudged the mage’s shoulder. “Thanks for this.”

A second pendant hung beside the amulet—he inspected it closely, and his stomach did a turn when he recognized it. Half a dragon’s tooth—wasn’t that a Qunari thing? Shit. That was the worst part about being a thief, and a looter—finding all these little remembrances, the evidence of a life lived and then cut short.

“Some Qunari out there hoping you’ll come home,” Gilberto murmured, looking down at the mage. “Too bad. Good-lookin’ guy, too. Ah, well. I’m sure she’ll move on, mate. One way or another.”

He got heavily to his feet, clasping the chain around his own neck and tucking the amulets beneath his leathers. They’d sell well on any market, black or otherwise—maybe get him enough to get across a border. Thedas was going all to shit these days; probably better to just skip town. Or kingdom, as it were.

“Hey— _hey!_ You there! Don’t even twitch your dick, or I’ll shoot it off ya!”

Gilberto stopped and looked over his shoulder. An elf girl stood not ten feet away, bow drawn, her eyes narrowed and teeth bared in a snarl. Her eyes darted down to the mage at his feet and then back up to his face.

“The _fuck_ did you do, you little shite?”

“Nothing. He was dead when I found him.”

Her eyes widened, and all at once she dropped her bow and closed the distance between them, dropping to her knees and pressing her ear to the mage’s chest.

“Oh, Maker,” she breathed, and opened up the satchel hanging off her belt, withdrawing a tiny bottle of ruby liquid and gathering the mage in her arms. “ _S_ _hite_. Dorian, you stupid tit, don’t leave like _this_ , with the wind all dark and cold—you should die where it’s warm, hey?” She uncorked the bottle with her teeth and brought it to his lips; the liquid trickled uselessly down his chin, and she curled inward with a sob, clutching at his still form and raking a hand through his hair. “Oh, no. _No_. What’ll I tell the Bull, you arse? What’ll I tell him now?”

Gilberto watched the scene uncomfortably, not knowing whether to go or stay—not sure if she’d knife him in the back if he dared turn away. He folded his arms over his torso, surreptitiously gripping the dagger in his belt—best to just make a run for it, and fight her if it came to it, though she had no reason to—

“ _Dorian!_ ”

The thief looked up—the elf girl was all smiles suddenly, tears spilling down her face, and the mage, who should have been dead on all accounts, lifted a hand to rub her cheek.

“Quit your blighting sniffling, Sera...”

She laughed and mussed his hair, and Gilberto figured that was the best chance he’d get. He turned on his heel and took off at a run. The girl didn’t call after him—indeed, she’d probably entirely forgotten about his existence. He ran until the pair were little more than a smudge of color behind him, then slowed to a walk. He picked at a few more bodies, but the pendants he’d lifted—stolen, now, not that he cared—were warm against his skin, a steady promise that things were about to take a turn for the better.

* * *

 

Niccolò Trevelyan walked the battlefield too—for entirely different reasons. He listened to the soft splash of blood beneath his boots and swallowed bile, bending down to close a fallen soldier’s eyes. Cole trailed along several paces behind him, stopping every now and again to end the suffering of the grievously wounded, mumbling to himself all the while.

“Go home one last time. See Revelia with her golden hair. Just give her a kiss to tell her I’ve been missing her. Fireplace with a rug thrown out beside it, watching her smile in the dark—”

“Cole,” Niccolò said wearily, and the spirit fell silent.

A scout jogged up to them, red in the face and somewhat breathless, and thunked a fist against her chest in a brief salute before speaking in a rush. “Inquisitor, we’ve secured a clearing nearby to make camp whenever you’re ready, and Commander Cullen has the battlefield survey reports prepared for your review, and when you have time, your Worship, there are new requisition orders coming from the eastern front—”

“So tired,” Cole said quietly, “so much death, so much bloodshed, just want it all to be over—”

“ _Cole_ ,” Niccolò repeated sharply, and turned back to the scout. “Thank you. Go back to Cullen, tell him to come see me at sunset. We’ll talk then. I’ll answer requisitions tomorrow.”

“Yes, your Worship—is that all?”

“Pass a message through the ranks. I want to see the inner circle tonight, as well.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” She saluted again and took off, armor flashing in the sunlight. Niccolò watched her go, wishing he had an ounce of her energy, and turned to his companion.

“Do you hear anyone?”

Cole canted his head to the side, face mostly hidden by his hat, but Niccolò was sure he knew the expression on the boy’s face, having seen it a hundred times before. “I hear Sera. She seems scared.”

“Which way?”

Cole pointed, and Niccolò set off for the west, steeling himself for the remainder of their slow trudge across the battlefield. He stopped periodically to let Cole do—whatever it was, exactly, that Cole did. Help people. Exhaustion itched beneath his eyelids, and his limbs felt leaden. This had been fierce, mindless violence—always was with the Red Templars, so poisoned were their minds. Maybe something could be done—something they could put in the lyrium veins, perhaps?...

“Oh.” Cole lifted his head. “Here comes the Iron Bull.” And then the spirit shrank a little, blinking rapidly. “And he is very angry.”

But Niccolò didn’t need the warning—he had caught sight of his comrade not a moment before, the huge Qunari barreling toward  him at a run. As he drew closer, Niccolò saw something dangling from the Bull’s arms; closer yet, he realized it was a body. His feet were moving before he understood, fully, what he was seeing, and the Bull collapsed to his knees the moment the Inquisitor reached him, heaving for breath, eye wild and panicked and yes, Niccolò could see the rage in the contorted lines of his face.

“ _Help_ ,” the Bull croaked. “Please, Boss—help him.”

Niccolò was already stripping off his gloves, helping Bull ease Dorian onto the ground and running hands over the mage’s wounds. Deep—one long, clean laceration that ran from the line of his hip up across his chest. It had been a downward cut, and for that they were lucky—Dorian’s ribs had taken the worst of it. Niccolò drew his healing glyphs quickly, staunching the bleeding where he could—there was too much damage yet to begin knitting the wound.

“There,” he said, after a few tense minutes, and removed his satchel to procure a heavy blanket. “He’s lost a lot of blood—important to keep him warm. There’s a camp set up nearby, we need a proper healer. Bull, can you carry him?”

“Yeah—I didn’t hurt him, did I? Running like that?”

“No. You needed to get help quickly, and you did.” Niccolò clapped him on the shoulder before getting to his feet, taking notice of Sera for the first time. She’d arrived a minute or so after Bull, and was still trying to catch her breath, blinking back tears while she hunched over her knees and sucked in deep lungfuls of air.

“This big galumpa is _fast_ ,” she wheezed, indicating Bull with a jerk of her thumb. Niccolò smiled and handed her his canteen, and she drank gratefully.

“Come on, the lot of you. The sooner we’re back at camp, the better.”

The Iron Bull grunted his agreement, getting to his feet and hoisting Dorian—now snuggly wrapped in Niccolò’s blanket—up against his chest. The mage’s head lolled bonelessly onto the Qunari’s shoulder, but beyond that, their friend didn’t move. Bull glanced up at Niccolò, eye full of fear, and swallowed loudly.

“Is he—is he gonna—”

“Back to camp, Bull,” Niccolò said swiftly. Cole was already ahead of them. As they followed, he bent down to sink his blade into a moaning soldier’s throat, and sniffled.

 

* * *

 

The inn—Bella’s Mare— nearest the battlefield filled up fast that night. Soldiers camped in tents along the outskirts of the nameless little hamlet, tending wounded, mourning in drunkenly raucous groups or alone as quiet silhouettes. Gilberto made his way through town, coin from a few sold staffs weighing his pockets pleasantly. He held onto the stolen amulets—they’d fetch the best price in Val Royeaux, not here, where the merchants had but a few coin to rub together.

Tired, bones aching, and desperately in need of a drink, he slipped into the throngs of people crowded inside Bella’s Mare, squirming into a seat at the bar beside a Qunari. He flipped the barkeep a coin and accepted a mug of dark, acrid-smelling beer. It went down badly, burned his throat, but almost at once he felt its warmth seeping into his blood, and he settled into his seat with a low sigh.

“Nothing like it, eh?” the Qunari rumbled. He was nursing a mug three times the size of Gilberto’s, but his words didn’t slur when he spoke.

“Yep.”

“Were you out there today?”

“Just running a supply line,” Gilberto said—not a lie, not completely

The Qunari grunted and lifted his mug. “I’m the Iron Bull.”

“Gil.” They toasted, clunking their mugs together before they both drank deeply. “Didn’t lose anyone today, did you?”

“Came close.” The Iron Bull rubbed a hand along his jaw. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye, and scars mottled his face; the way he spoke and held himself were too gentle for the roughness of his looks. “I was all about it, you know—the Inquisition, when I first joined up. Now, I… I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t be here anymore. I feel like an idiot—I’ve got this good thing, a really good thing, and I let him keep going out there instead of putting him on my shoulder and getting him the shit out of here. You know?”

“Sure,” Gil said—not knowing at all, but this was just polite bar conversation.

“Listen to me,” the Iron Bull grunted, offering his companion a rueful smile. “I gross myself out these days. That brat’s ruined me. Anyway. How’d you wind up here, Gil?”

“Just—didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

The Qunari hummed, surveying him with his one good eye. “Inquisition’s a pretty good place for elves, yeah?”

“Yeah. Better than most.”

“If things could be better, you know you can talk to the Inquisitor? He’s pretty concerned about the elves.”

“Good of him,” Gilberto said, nursing his drink down to the bottom of his mug. He’d probably had enough—he had a long trip to start tomorrow, after all—but the Iron Bull was good company and the inn was warm. He leaned across the bar to put another coin in the barkeep’s hand, and as he moved forward, the pendants slid from his shirt to hang openly against his chest.

In the months to come, he would think a lot about that moment—about how things might have turned out had he not decided on that second drink, or if he had flipped the coin instead of pressing it directly into the barkeep’s hand, or if the Iron Bull had turned away for just a moment, or tucked himself behind his mug—but as it happened, he leaned forward, the amulets slid out, and the Bull saw.

And then the Bull punched him in the face.

Gil didn’t see it coming—he was accepting his second mug when suddenly pain unlike nothing he’d ever felt before exploded across his cheek bone and jaw, and then he was on the ground, pressure and pain obscuring his vision, warm blood dribbling from his nose and lip onto the floor. A hand snagged in his leathers and dragged him upright, and he squinted blearily up at the Qunari, who suddenly seemed very, _very_ well suited to his frightening scars and intimidating eyepatch.

“Nothing I hate more than a blighting _thief_ ,” the Iron Bull growled. He wrapped a hand around both amulets—gently, as if they were made of glass—and pulled them from Gil’s neck, snapping the chain. “Especially a _stupid_ one.” He held up the dragon tooth. “You know what this means, thief?”

Gil shook his head—he knew, of course—but fear thrummed cold in his veins, and the blood running down his throat choked off his voice.

“The person who owns this is _k_ _adan_ —my _heart_. You think a great, big, bad Qunari wouldn’t protect his _heart_?”

“Sorry,” Gil wheezed, coughing blood. Ruby flecked the Bull’s face. “S-Sorry…

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Gil found himself airborne—the Qunari _threw_ him across the bar, sent him sliding along the rough wooden surface, hitting glasses and other patrons until he fell to the floor on the other end. His vision blacked at the edges, swimming, blurring the Bull’s form as the big Qunari stalked toward him.

“Hey— _hey! Enough!_ ”

A leg blocked his attacker, and Gilberto tilted his head up, squinting—a man stood over him, one hand out to halt the Qunari’s advance.

“Iron Bull. Stop."

“Move, Nic,” the Qunari snapped, teeth bared, but he halted, every muscle in his body drawn taut.

“No. Step back. You’re angry. You get another hand on him, you’ll kill him.”

“And—what? Thedas suffers for the loss of one more vulture?”

Gil realized that the entire bar had gone quiet—or was that just his pounding head, blood filling his ears?

“I know today was rough,” the man—Nic— said, taking a slow step forward, pressing his fingertips against the Bull’s chest until the Qunari took an answering step back. “And you have the right to fall apart—a little. You’ve had your drink, you’ve beaten the shit out of a random stranger. Now go sit with Dorian.”

“Boss—”

“I said, _go_.”

The Qunari hovered a moment, eye narrowed, but the man held firm—and finally, much to Gil’s relief, the Iron Bull turned away and stalked out of the bar with heavy, thudding steps. The man released a long breath and turned, kneeling down and pressing a hand over Gil’s face.

“Relax,” he said quietly, and Gil shuddered when he felt something electric crackle along his skin. He didn’t like magic—it set his teeth on edge. But he heard a soft _crack_ while the bones in his nose and cheekbone knitted together, and when he swallowed, his throat didn’t refill with blood.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice hoarse and shaky. “Qunari, huh?”

Nic was frowning at him, dark brows furrowed. Gilberto took a moment to appreciate that his savior was something of a nice specimen—young, human, aquiline features, pale skin and grey eyes, raven-colored hair that stuck up in happy little unkept tufts.

“What did you do to make him so angry?”

“Nothing,” Gil lied, trying to sit up and failing—his head spun, and he lay back against the floor with a groan.

“Liar.”

The man turned, and the elf girl Gilberto had seen earlier pushed her way out of the dissipating throng of onlookers, her cute features drawn into a dark scowl.

“I saw him standing over Dorian,” she said, pointing an accusing finger. “And then the dragon tooth went missing, hey? Bull said it was gone, Nic. Betcha this little shite swiped it.”

Another woman joined the elf girl—tall and scary-looking, her pretty features enhanced rather than marred by the wicked scar that crossed her left cheek. “We should take him in for questioning. Spies are often disguised as looters.”

“I’m no spy,” Gil growled, but when he tried to rise, the woman drew her sword, and he went still.

Nic hummed, getting to his feet. “I’ll trust your judgement on this, Cassandra. But have a healer take a better look at his injuries.”

“At once.”

Nic drew up his hood and swept from the bar, the elf girl tagging along at his heels with one last glare over her shoulder at Gil. The woman called Cassandra bent down and dragged Gil up by one arm, pinning his wrists behind his back with a grip unlike any he’d ever felt.

“I’d recommend that you don’t struggle.”

“I’ll trust your judgement on that,” he parroted, and she gave him a rough jostle before marching him toward the door.

* * *

 

Bull knew the exact moment his fuck buddy became _k_ _adan_. It had been snowing in Skyhold—and Dorian had been teaching himself to breathe fire. For various reasons, not the least of which being the fact that Dorian wasn’t always _entirely_ in control of his considerable magic, Nic told him to take it outside. So in spite of the fact that he hated the cold, and the snow, and _being_ outside, and being by himself, Dorian put on a heavy coat and scarf and trooped out into the courtyard. Bull followed—discreetly, at a distance—and found the kid not practicing firebreathing, but standing there with his head tipped back, eyes closed, tongue out. Catching snowflakes.

And it was then that the Iron Bull realized he was screwed.

He reflected on just how deeply screwed he was while he sat at Dorian’s bedside in the healer’s tent, doing something he hadn’t done in literally years—sewing. Dorian’s robes had come off the field blood-spattered and torn to absolute shreds, but they were his _favorite_. Bull had badgered Vivienne until she testily cleaned them with a simple spell, and then the big Qunari picked up a needle and began to carefully stitch the delicate fabric. Maybe the prissy little mage wouldn’t want to wear them again, maybe he’d declare them ruined, but the Bull needed something to do that wasn’t watching Dorian struggle for breath.

“Evening, Bull.”

The Qunari lifted his head, greeting the Inquisitor with a grunt and looking back down at his stitching. “Boss.”

Nic sat down beside him, propping his elbows on his knees and watching his friend with arched brows. “Are you—sewing?”

“As it were. Yeah.”

“That Dorian’s?”

“Yeah.”

Nic hummed and fell silent, leaning forward to adjust the blankets around Dorian’s (upsettingly still) form. “The healer I talked to said he seemed better today.”

Bull would buy that when the mage opened his eyes and said something annoying, but he refrained from commenting, grunting instead. Nic was looking at him, maybe preparing to say something, and Bull tensed, waiting for it.

“So. That thief you hit.”

“What about him?”

“He’s fine.”

Bull grunted again. The stolen amulets were back around Dorian’s neck, where they belonged, the dragon’s tooth dark and bold against the clean white of his dressings, a stark contrast to the gold of his magister’s pendant.

“I’ll be passing judgement tomorrow. Do you want to be there?”

“No,” Bull said. He finished a knot and gave the stitchings a tug. They held. “Better I’m not. What are you gonna do to him?”

“Looting isn’t an offense punishable by death.”

“But?”

“But,” Nic sighed, shifting, “if his ilk are running amok on the field, that means we’re hemorrhaging good supplies. I should make an example of him.”

Bull hummed. “But…?”

“But doing so would be cruel.”

The Qunari had to nod at that. “Yeah. You’re not a cruel guy, Nic. Better do what feels right to you. And nevermind me. I’ll get over it.”

Niccolò smiled at him, nudging the Bull with an elbow. “Dorian would have been devastated if he lost that tooth. Maybe he could take or leave the magister’s amulet, but I haven’t seen him without that fang since you gave it to him.”

“Yeah, I know. Poor twerp’s got it bad for the Bull.”

Niccolò laughed, leaning his weight against the Bull’s vast side. “Would you mind terribly if I slept here?”

“Gonna be a little uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” Niccolò said, his voice already low and heavy. “But I’m too tired to get up again, and I want to be here when he wakes.”

“Okay. Sure.”

And the Inquisitor was asleep within minutes, chin on his chest, his breath steady and quiet, a stark contrast to Dorian’s short, sharp gasps. The Iron Bull sat in the stillness and relished it. Funny how things could be so wrong but feel so safe. He reached across the cot and took Dorian’s hand, ran a thumb along his knuckles.

“I’ve got you, big guy,” he murmured, and leaned in to kiss his lover’s brow, tasted the mage’s sweat. “I’ve got you.”

 

* * *

He’d been that close— _that close_ —to being gone. He could have been en route to Val Royeaux by now. He would have spent maybe a week or two in the city, let his fat pockets weigh him down, drank delicious wine and found good company with the pretty men. Maker, it had been too long since he’d taken anyone to bed. He preferred creature comforts to physical closeness, but even his sheets felt too cold sometimes.

And if his sheets were cold, this tent was _arctic_. Gilberto curled up tighter in the one blanket he’d been given, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He couldn’t feel his ears, or his nose; he kept wetting his lips to warm them, sucking them between his teeth, leaving them chapped and tender. He wished he were a mage, at least then he’d be able to make himself a little fire. He’d been fed, at least—a few scraps of lamb and a slice of bread with some mulled mead, and it was better than nothing, but only by so much.

The tent flap opened, and the woman who’d arrested him—Cassandra, he thought, not that he particularly cared—stepped in. She knelt, without speaking, and unshackled the manacles around his ankles.

“Come on,” she said, standing.

“Where am I going?”

“To your judgement. Stand, thief.”

Gil got to his feet—slowly, wincing when his ankles ached and his knees creaked in protest. “I’m freezing. Can I have a cloak?”

“No. Come on.”

He thought of all manner of rude names to call her, hungry insults catching on his tongue, but he bit them back behind his teeth and let the Seeker lead him from the tent by the manacles still locked around his wrists. The few soldiers they passed paid them little attention; more important things to do, Gil supposed, than watch some sorry thief meet his end.

“Normally,” Cassandra said, and Gil jumped at being addressed, “we would bring you back to Skyhold to await a formal trial. We do not have that luxury now.”

Gilberto swallowed. That didn’t sound good. No, that didn’t sound good at all. It occurred to him that she could be leading him to a gallows, and something sick and cold plunged into his stomach. But he grit his jaw and lifted his chin as she led him into the central circle of tents. The big Qunari who’d hit him the day before ducked out of a healer’s tent as they approached, folding his arms over his massive chest and glaring down at Gil. Gilberto glared back, praying he looked braver than he felt.

“Step back, Bull.” The man called Nic strode from the tent, shrugging on a heavy cloak and turning up the collar against the biting wind.

“I want to see.”

“You told me yesterday that you shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, now I want to,” the Bull growled.

Nic hummed and shrugged. He stepped up in front of the Qunari and nodded at Cassandra, who tugged Gilberto forward, a little more gently than before. He came to a stop not five feet from the man who had saved him and waited.

“What’s your name?” Nic asked. Gilberto glared at him, sullen, and only when the silence had dragged on uncomfortably long did he speak.

“I thought the Inquisitor would be passing judgement. Isn’t that how it works?”

“It is, and I am,” Nic said simply. “What’s your name, thief?”

Gilberto stared, then released a barked laugh. “What? You? Oh. Sorry. I hear ‘Inquisitor,’ I don’t think someone quite so—well, cute. You busy later?”

The Iron Bull took one step forward, shoulders tightening, and Nic threw out an arm, glaring until the Qunari backed down.

“Easy,” the Inquisitor chastised, and turned back to his prisoner. “Well?”

“It’s Volpe.”

“Told me it was Gil yesterday,” the Bull said.

“So which is it?”

“Both,” Gilberto said, hunching his shoulders against a cold gust of wind. “It pays to have many names. Makes a thief harder to find.”

“Volpe,” Cassandra said slowly, eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard that name before.”

Gil shrugged. “I did case Val Royeax a few months back.”

The Seeker stiffened. “That’s right—someone stole ten thousand coins’ worth of artifacts from one of Andraste’s temples. That was _you_?”

“Yeah, but holy artifacts don’t get as much on the black market as one might hope. Turns out you’ve gotta be religious, otherwise it’s just old crap.”

Cassandra bared her teeth and tugged hard on the rope tied to his manacles, and Gil went to his knees with a grunt, growling when she pointed the tip of her sword at his jaw.

“Inquisitor, if you please.”

“He’s on trial for looting the bodies of our fallen comrades, Cassandra, not for his past misdeeds,” Nic said sharply. “Stand down.”

“Inquisitor, I—”

“Stand _down_.”

She withdrew, but her sword remained clenched in her fist, and Gil felt her eyes burning into the back of his skull. He lifted his chin and turned his gaze up to the Inquisitor. Nic sighed and raked a hand through his hair.

“Gilberto—Volpe. For the crime of looting the bodies of the fallen, a number of courts would sentence you to death.” He paused and looked at the Bull; after a moment, the Qunari nodded, and Nic continued. “I would be well justified in a sentence of hard labor, or time in the Skyhold prison. Some here would have it so. But I offer you this instead—you stole that which was precious to my dearest of friends. Pay back your debt to them by offering your aid to the Inquisition.”

A rough grin quirked the Iron Bull’s mouth, but Cassandra’s jaw dropped and she stared at Nic with wide, horrified eyes.

“ _Niccolò_ —please—a scoundrel like _this_?—at _our side_ on the battlefield? Against _Corypheus_? Surely—”

“He has skills, Cassandra, does he not?” Niccolò interrupted, arching an eyebrow. “We need supplies. Desperately. Surely a thief knows the lay of the land better than any other—where valuables might be found, which holds have the most guards, which roads are most apt to be the haunts of bandits. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Gilberto said, almost breathless, hardly daring to believe his luck. “I can grab anything from anywhere. And I know which roads are safe. I could get a whole supply caravan from the Hissing Wastes to the Hinterlands, easy.”

Niccolò nodded. “You’ll accompany us to Skyhold, then—under watch. When we arrival, we’ll turn you over to Leliana.”

“I _must_ object,” Cassandra said through gritted teeth.

“Your concerns are noted, Cass,” Nic said, giving her a cool look. “But my decision is final. Will you please escort him back to his tent? I want guards posted, but remove his shackles.” He looked at Gilberto and raised an eyebrow. “That is, if you can be trusted.”

Gil snorted. “Like I’m gonna run when there are blighting soldiers crawling all over these hills.”

The Iron Bull guffawed, and Gil’s smirk faltered a little. “Oh, little man—you run, the soldiers are gonna be the _least_ of your problems.”

* * *

 

There was a nug.

Dorian blinked, squinting. Yes, definitely—a little trembling mass of pink in the corner of the tent, its little face peering out at him from beneath a pile of clothes—oh. His clothes. He didn’t think nugs lived in this area—too cold. Just like him! ...Oh, Maker. Something must _really_ be wrong if he was empathising with a nug…

He lifted his head a little, wincing when something pulled low in his chest. The tent was chilly, but he was _sweating_ , dampness making his hair cling to his forehead and the back of his neck, sticking his shirt to his back. He made to wriggle out of it and gasped sharply at the hot pain that lanced through him when he tried to sit up.

“—Oh. Oh, hey, easy there…”

A hand smoothed over his hair before gently guiding him onto his back, and Dorian blinked up at the all-too-familiar visage of the Iron Bull. The Qunari practically beamed, flicking at a curl of dark hair that fell across Dorian’s brow.

“Okay. Don’t panic—but your hair is a mess.”

“...Bull?”

“Yep. Hi.” A big thumb brushed down the side of his face, traced along his jaw and softly stroked his lips before the hand attached came to rest against his chest, covering his heart. “How do you feel?”

“Tired…” Dorian closed his eyes, soothed by the warmth of the Bull’s palm, by the fingertips that gently rubbed at his collarbone. “Bull, there’s a nug…”

“A nug?”

Dorian tipped his head toward the corner, and Bull’s weight left him for a moment. He heard rustling clothes, and then the Qunari chuckled.

“Hey. Lookit that. Guess I’ll put it outside.”

“No—” Dorian opened his eyes and reached out, though he quickly withdrew his arm with a grunt, clutching at his abdomen. “Mmn—no, it’s too—blighting _cold_. It’ll die.”

“Guess so.” Bull sat back down upon the bedroll, holding the bundle of clothes in the crook of one arm and chuckling when the nug shivered. “Cute little thing. Guess he’s tagging along, then.” He turned his attention away from the little creature to watch Dorian, running a hand over the mage’s hair, pushing it back from his brow. “Hey. Does anything hurt much?”

“Only when I move.”

“Don’t do that, then.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Such sage advice.”

The Bull smiled, tapping a fingertip against his lover’s nose. “You had me pretty scared, ‘Vint.”

“Learn to fortify yourself, the Iron Bull. You can’t collapse in a panic every time someone falls on the battlefield."

Bull hummed at that, wrapping a hand around one of Dorian’s and giving it a squeeze. “I can if it’s you, _k_ _adan._ ”

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian murmured, and Bull’s guts clenched—that sultry voice was just so damn _pretty_ when it was shaped around Tevene. “What kind of fool would I be to leave you behind?”

“The mortal kind.” Bull leaned down and kissed him, a soft little thing that held no intent, but nonetheless it made that little ache act up behind his ribcage. And Dorian—even sick and wounded—still pouted at him a little when it was over, and the Bull chuckled. “Nah. Not now. Rest up—because the sooner you’re spry and spunky again, the sooner I can resume tying you to my headboard.”

“I’d expect no less from you.” Dorian was already sinking back against the pillows, closing his eyes, breath evening out. “Be kind to Bartholome.”

Bull frowned. “Who?”

“The nug,” Dorian murmured, and then he was out.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sparkler isn't in this chapter a whole lot because I'm still pretty nervous about writing him. *Dorian poke*


	2. In Which Everyone is Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know it seems to be the community convention, but there's just no reason to capitalize 'kadan' or 'amatus' and I'm not doing it. I refuse.

Niccolò sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bull.”

The Iron Bull winced and looked up from the nug, which he’d been trying to feed from a handkerchief soaked in mare’s milk. “Uh. Boss?”

“If a horse broke its leg, would you try to ride it three days later?”

“Er—no?”

The Inquisitor pointed at Dorian, fixing the Qunari with a hard glare. “Same principle applies.”

The Bull burst into loud laughter while Dorian’s face flushed crimson all the way to the tips of his ears. Niccolò redrew his healing glyphs, just as he’d done for the last two days, and helped Dorian sit up so he could change his bandages. The Bull sat down at  the mage’s side, holding a hand against his back to steady him, chuckling all the while.

“How did you _know_?” Dorian demanded.

Niccolò raised one eyebrow and pointed; Dorian slapped a hand against the side of his neck, running his fingers along his skin until he found the bruise.

“ _Damn_ you, Bull! You _swore_ you wouldn’t—”

“Sorry, sorry—couldn’t help myself,” the Bull soothed, leaning over to kiss the mark. “It was just a quickie, Nic, swear it.”

“I don’t care how _long_ it took, _he_ should be resting, and _you_ should know better,” Niccolò retorted. He finished with the bandages, tying them tight enough to make Dorian wince, and got to his feet, uncorking his canteen with his teeth to rinse his hands.

“Wasn’t even that energetic—he was on his back the whole—”

“Shut up, shut _up_ right this instant or I’m leaving you,” Dorian hissed, and the Bull started laughing all over again.

Niccolò rolled his eyes, pulling back on his coat and heavy gloves. The nug nestled up in Dorian’s clothes squeaked from Bull’s arm. “Alright—what’s with the nug?”

“This?” Bull held up the bundle, grinning. “This is Fidget.”

“It’s Bartholome,” Dorian corrected.

“ _Fidget_ showed up in the tent a few nights back.”

“So we thought we’d keep _Bartholome_ out of the cold.”

“Wait—” Niccolò held up a hand to stop them, rubbing his head. “So you’re keeping the nug.”

“Yep.”

“And you’ve named it Fi—”

“ _Bartholome!_ ”

“Okay. _Why_ are you keeping the nug?”

“Uh, it’s _Fidget_ —”

“What do you mean, _why_?” Dorian frowned, reaching into the bundle to rub the little creature behind the ears. “Because it’s darling, of course.”

Niccolò sighed and opened the tent flap. “Do as you will, I suppose. So long as doing so involves everybody’s clothes staying _on_.”

“That’s not as restrictive as you might think,” Iron Bull called after him, and Niccolò smiled at the distinctive sound of Dorian slapping the Qunari’s huge chest before the tent flap fell closed.

He wasn’t at all surprised to find Cullen and Cassandra waiting for him, both looking pensive and irritable, and he suppressed the wild urge to make a break for it before he closed the distance between them.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, stepping forward and placing a fist across his chest; Niccolò mirrored him. “Nic, Cassandra’s told me about this matter with the thief, and I really _must_ voice my objections—”

“I know,” Niccolò replied wearily, holding up a hand to stall him. “I know, Cullen, alright? Everyone objects, I get it. But I’ve made my decision.”

“Look, I don’t think you—” Cassandra halted, visibly biting her tongue, and then began again in calmer tones. “This thief is infamous. He is dangerous, and he will turn on us the first chance he gets.”

Niccolò frowned, looking at Cullen. “Do we have the manpower to hold him?”

“Yes.”

“Then we hold him. Turn him over to Leliana.” Niccolò shivered, closing his heavy cloak and belting it tightly. “I’m going to make rounds. Cullen, prepare for an advance force to head back to Skyhold. Clear the roads.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Dorian—the wounded aren’t well enough to travel. I’ll come with the second half.”

Cassandra frowned. “I’ll travel with you.”

“It’s alright. I’ll be with Dorian and the Iron Bull, we’ll be more than safe.”

“Keep someone else. Just to put my mind at ease,” Cassandra added when he opened his mouth to protest.

“Sera, then.” Because the girl probably wouldn’t leave without Dorian, anyway.

“Very well. I’ll accompany the advance and bring the thief back to Skyhold.”

“No,” Niccolò said, shaking his head. “He’ll travel with me.”

“ _Nic_ —”

“I’m a little concerned he won’t make it back if he’s left in your care,” Niccolò said, smiling to let her know he meant it in jest. “Trust me, Cass. Please?”

“Well, of course I trust you,” she said, clearly ruffled, a blossom of pink across her nose. “Just—do be careful, Inquisitor.”

“I will. I always am.”

Cullen snorted. “Hardly.” He clapped Niccolò on the shoulder and headed off. Cassandra hovered, something clinging to the tip of her tongue, but at length she nodded and followed the commander.

Nic watched them go, tongue in cheek. With a sigh, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, feeling the sharp, cold sting of the wind, the edges of the Fade tugging at him, luring him. The ache in his body went down to the marrow; his mana was exhausted, nearly spent on healing spells. Reopening his eyes, he tugged his cloak a little tighter and headed out, boots leaving deep imprints in the snow.

 

* * *

 

It stormed that night; the wind screamed, uprooting trees, spraying snow through the air. Sleet came down in icy sheets that screeched against the walls of every tent. Gilberto lay huddled beneath his three blankets, teeth chattering; no doubt his guards had abandoned their posts, but he wasn’t about to go out into that cold.

His tent flap opened, and he thought it might have been the wind’s doing until the Inquisitor poked his head in. He spoke, but the gale drowned him out; instead of shouting again, he merely beckoned with a hand. Gilberto rose cautiously, shivering, and picked up a blanket to sling around his shoulders when Nic jerked his head toward the storm raging outside.

“Tripling up tents!” the Inquisitor shouted, opening his cloak. Gilberto stared at him in disbelief. “Well, come on!”

Ridiculous—but by the Maker’s left ball, it was _cold_. Gil tucked himself beneath Nic’s arm and bowed his head, and together they trudged through the snow, fighting against the gale until they reached a larger tent. Nic fumbled with the flap, yanking it open and pushing Gil inside.

“ _Vishante kaffas!_ ” Dorian retreated against the sudden gust of cold air, pulling one of his ten or so blankets over his head and recoiling against the Bull’s chest. “Shut it, shut it, _shut it!_ ”

Niccolò chuckled, closing the flap behind him and tying it securely—the wind still tugged on it from outside—and shaking snow from his hair. “Sorry.”

“You very well should be! Maker…”

The Iron Bull wrapped both arms securely around the mage’s shoulders before lifting his head, arching a brow when he caught sight of Gil. “What’s the thief doing here?”

“He was going to freeze to death out there,” Nic said, taking a seat and slapping his hands together to restore the feeling in his fingers. “Gil, sit—any extra blankets?”

Bull rolled his eye and indicated the mage bundled up in his lap. “Not anymore.”

“Piss off,” Dorian responded, voice muffled beneath his cocoon.

Gil didn’t mind; someone had drawn fire glyphs along the walls of the tent, and the air felt pleasantly warm and heavy. A fire wisp hung close to the tented ceiling, dancing to and fro, casting the small space into orange light. He sat cautiously as far from the Bull as he could get and drew his knees up to his chest, shivering while the cold receded from his bones.

The tent flap opened once more—was wrenched open, more like—and Dorian exploded into a flurry of Tevene swears while the elf girl ducked inside, followed closely by a dwarf.

“Oy,” she said brightly, snapping two fingers to her brow. “Inquisitor, Ox, Sparkler.”

“ _Close the damn tent!_ ”

“Ooh, and Sticky Fingers!” The girl waggled her fingers at Gil and, much to his shock (and horror), took a seat by his side. “Sorry about saying I’d shoot your dick off, hey? Nothing much about that more to say, I wager.”

The dwarf closed up the tent and took a seat on Gil’s other side, pulling a flask from his coat and nudging it against the thief’s arm. “Want a draw, pal?”

“Uh—no, thank you.”

“Here,” Bull grunted, and the dwarf tossed it to him.

“Me too,” Dorian said, poking his head up from his blankets.

The Bull frowned and tapped a finger against his nose. “Not until you’re better rested.”

“ _Ugh_. You’re very lucky I’m too tired to be petulant.”

“Yeah, no, no petulance here, nope.” Bull kissed his hair before taking a deep draw from the flask, lowering it with a groan and handing it back to the dwarf. “Hits the spot, that.”

“Don’t it? Inquisitor?”

“Fine, thank you.” Nic accepted a blanket from the elf girl with a grateful nod, swapping it for his snow-dusted cloak. “Has everyone met our new recruit?”

“He’s the infamous thief, innit he?” the elf said, poking Gil’s ribs. “ _Volpe_ , criminal mastermind of Val Royeaux! I’m Sera, by the way, mighta mentioned that before I brought up your dick, suppose.”

“And I’m Varric,” the dwarf added, shooting Gil a grin. “I hear talk you’ve already made the acquaintance of the Bull.”

“Er.” Gilberto glanced at the Qunari. “Yeah. We—met. So, uh—?”

“Dorian Pavus,” said the lump on the Bull’s lap. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

The Bull grunted, shifting his weight around and adjusting the blankets. “Got Fidget in there?”

“I have Bartholome in here with me, yes.”

“Ooh!” Sera leaned forward, picking at the blankets and earning herself a hiss when she managed to expose the mage within. “That the nug? Can I see? Just a peek?”

Dorian pushed a blanket off his head and sat up so she could see the little creature curled up in his lap, and she all but squealed with delight, petting it behind the ears and giggling when it blinked at her with wide eyes. “Aw, he’s sweet, innit he? And what’s his name?”

“Bartholome,” Dorian replied, at the exact same instant that Bull said “Fidget,” and they glared at one another.

Sera looked from one to the other, blinked twice, and grinned at the nug. “Bartholome, hey? Weird, just like the rest of us.”

“ _Hah!_ ”

“Oh, come _on_ , Sera…”

“Can I hold him?”

Dorian handed her the nug before retreating back into his blankets, settling against Bull’s chest with a smirk up at his scowling lover. The Bull flicked his ear.

Gilberto watched the entire exchange with a growing sense of discomfort; suddenly he felt that he’d rather be back in his own tent, freezing slowly. Beyond Sera’s weirdness, and the utter absurdity of a ‘Vint mage being curled up like an overgrown cat in a Qunari’s lap, not two days before he’d been looting valuables off that same man’s body and had gotten his face beaten in for it.

“Not that I don’t like sharing space with a whole fleet of other guys, plus nutty elves, but why are we all piled in here?” Varric asked.

“Cullen’s recommendation. Should keep anyone from freezing in the night.” Nic shivered all the same and drew his blanket in closer. “Body warmth and all that.”

“Uh-huh.” Varric leveled a purposeful gaze at Dorian and the Bull. “Think we need to establish some—ground rules.”

“Nic already told us no fucking,” the Bull said simply. Dorian pulled a blanket back up over his head and hid his face with a groan.

“Also no rimming, fingering, blowjobs, handies, lip service, sweet talk, moaning—moaning _especially_ —”

“ _Kaffas_ , we get it,” Dorian whined. Bull grinned and squeezed him a little closer.

“What about this, huh, dwarf? Am I allowed to do this? What about slapping his ass when he starts grinding on me in the morning, that okay?”

“ _Bull!_ ”

“One yes, one no.”

“Eh. Fair enough.” The Bull ruffled a fond hand through Dorian’s hair.

They passed an amicable evening with chatter—the Inquisition did, anyway. Gilberto sat sandwiched awkwardly between Sera and Varric, mouth closed tight, responding monosyllabically when addressed. How these people could go from vilifying to sharing a tent with him was beyond Gil, and he didn’t care to dwell on it for much longer. The moment the storm passed, he’d be gone, and soldiers and the Iron Bull be damned—he’d find a way. Anything to get him away from this syrupy sense of camaraderie.

“Are you warm enough?”

Gil jumped at being addressed, swallowing when he found Nic’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him carefully. “Yes.”

The Inquisitor smiled, nodding toward his comrades; Varric had scooted away from Gilberto to speak to the Bull, who now had Sera leaning against his knee while she played with the nug.

“I know they can be a lot to handle.”

“It’s alright. Just glad it’s warm.”

“Wish they’d just leave me alone, can’t wait to get away from here, need to find Lyera—”

Gilberto jumped and whirled around; a young man crouched behind him, watching him with huge, doleful eyes. “ _Maker!_ ”

“Cole,” Nic sighed, beckoning to him, “you can’t keep doing that.”

The boy blinked and shuffled away from Gil. “Sorry.”

“C’mere, Cole,” the Bull said, waving him over. “Come meet Fidget.”

“His name is _Bartholome_ , but you are, of course, still welcome, Cole. Do come here.”

Cole smiled and shuffled over to them, crouching down at Sera’s side to pet the nug. Gilberto shuddered, rubbing at the goose bumps that had risen on his arms.

“Uh. What…”

“Cole is a spirit of the Fade,” Nic explained, chuckling. “He comes and goes.”

“You keep a Fade demon around? You Inquisition people run around day and night fighting off demons and then let one run around your camp?”

Nic’s smile slid from his face. “Cole is one of us. He saved my life the first time we met, and many times since. He is what he is.”

“Sure,” Gil grumbled, pulling his blanket a little tighter. “Whatever you say.”

Nic surveyed him for a moment, lips pursed, before speaking again. “So. Gilberto.”

“I actually prefer Volpe.”

“Then you should have introduced yourself thus. Where are you from?”

Gil scowled, picking at one of his boots. “Don’t know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, I don’t _know_. Earliest place I can remember is Minrathous. Then I was in Orlais.” He shrugged. “Can’t remember much of what was in between.”

“You were in Minrathous,” Niccolò repeated slowly, and something unmistakable and dark crept into his eyes. “Then you were…”

“What most elves are in Minrathous,” Gil said, trying his very best to sound disaffected by the admission.

“Is that—is that why you chose Dorian? On the field.”

“I chose your pal because he’s a mage, and because mages always have the best shit,” Gil retorted flatly. “Look, I was a slave. Now I’m not. I’m not carrying around what happened to me in Tevinter. It’s in the past.”

“I see. I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I don’t.”

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence, watching Bartholome/Fidget jump into Sera’s lap to sniff at her coat, then hurry back beneath Dorian’s blankets before venturing out again a few moments later. Varric had pulled out a notebook, propping it against his knee and writing busily, glancing up every so often to look at one of the others with a scrutinizing expression.

“What’s he doing?” Gil asked uneasily, when Varric looked his way before making another note.

“We’re his, uh, muses, so to speak. Don’t worry—he mostly writes embarrassing anecdotes about everyone’s romantic entanglements. So keep your heart off your sleeve and you’ll be fine.”

No problems there. Gil tightened his blanket around his shoulders and cast a furtive glance at the Inquisitor—and found the Inquisitor staring back. Nic jumped and looked away much too quickly, crimson spreading across the bridge of his nose. Gil grinned at him.

“See something you like?”

“I was—lost in thought.”

“Of course you were.”

Nic shot him a sour glare. “I imagine you’re not familiar with the concept.”

Gil’s smile widened at that. “Salty one, the Inquisitor. I’ll have to keep that in mind. Maybe you need a little sweetness to even you out?”

“Oh, goody,” Dorian piped up, interrupting their repartee. “The Inquisitor’s being propositioned by a bilge rat. I keep telling you, Nic, you’ll be much more relaxed if you’d just go ahead and take one in the ass, as it were.”

Niccolò raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re pretty eager to be lying down and bleeding again, aren’t you?”

Dorian winked at him and leaned up to whisper in Bull’s ear; the Qunari lifted his eye and leveled a look at Gil that sent chills up the thief’s spine. At length, the Bull looked back at Sera, and Gilberto permitted himself to relax a tiny fraction.

The sooner he got out of here, the better.

* * *

 

They only pretended at sleep. The wind picked up as the night wore on, howling around them, and the temperature continued to plummet. Cole just disappeared, in classic Cole fashion; Sera and Varric slept curled up side by side, both snoring loudly and kicking one another through the blankets. Bull stretched out on his back with Dorian tucked neatly into his side, while Niccolò finally dozed off at the mage’s back. Gilberto curled himself as tightly into a corner as he could manage.

Nearly two hours after they doused the wisp, he felt himself begin to nod off, only to be woken again by a shriek from the wind. He shivered and curled up tighter in his blanket, squeezing his eyes shut when the tent shuddered around them. He hated storms, always had; storms in Tevinter had been bad, he thought, until he heard the maelstrom kicking around outside. In Tevinter it had been lightning, and thunder that shook the walls and made the houses groan and creak on their foundations, and rain that came down in deluges that threatened to flood the streets.

Someone was moaning—he only just heard it over the wailing wind, but for one horrified moment Gilberto thought someone in the tent might be… _up_ to something. But then he heard them breathing, a nasty, sharp kind of gasping that didn’t sound like someone in the throes of ecstasy. A moment later, someone’s blanket rustled, and Gil saw a silhouette sit up in the dark.

“...Fuck,” Nic mumbled. “Bull?”

“...Mn? Boss? S’late…”

But then that _moan_ , again, and it set Gil’s teeth on edge. He saw the Bull sit bolt upright, bending down to check the mage huddled into his side.

“Hey—hey, _k_ _adan_ , shh… shh… shit, Nic. He’s really hurting.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Come on, in that storm? Let me go.”

“I know what I’m looking for. Just hold on.”

Gilberto shut his eyes quickly as the Inquisitor got to his feet, lest his eyes reflect the softly glowing runes on the tent walls; he heard Nic pull on his heavy cloak and shuddered at the gust of cold wind when he pulled open the tent. Bull crawled on all fours across the tent to close the flap before returning to Dorian’s side, his murmuring almost inaudible over the wind.

The seconds ticked past, dragging into minutes. Gilberto could almost taste the tension on his tongue. Outside, the wind howled on, raking nails across their tent, shaking the snow from the trees. After what must have been near a quarter of an hour, the Iron Bull sat up, and Gil saw the great horned silhouette of his massive head canted toward the tent flap, could see the hard press of the Qunari’s mouth in his mind’s eye.

“Fuck,” he heard the warrior grunt, but as Bull made to get to his feet, Dorian began to cough, his violent hacking making Gil’s teeth grind, and Bull continued his chorus of “Fuck” even as he laid down again to gather the mage in his arms.

After another ten excruciating minutes, Gil couldn’t take anymore—Sera and Varric were awake now, both sitting up in the darkness, talking in tense whispers, Dorian was groaning, his voice muffled against the Bull’s chest, and the Qunari kept making pensive little growling noises that made Gil feel like he was about to be attacked. The thief got to his feet, tightened his blanket around his shoulders, and pulled the tent flap open.

“Hey!” Varric shouted at him, but Gilberto ignored him, shouldering his way into the wind and gritting his teeth against the sharp bite of snow and sleet on his cheeks. None of them followed him out, and he soldiered into the cold.

Or so he thought—a moment later he felt a hand at his back, and looked over his shoulder to see Sera huddled behind him, teeth chattering.

“ _Move!_ ” she shouted, and he nodded, ducking his head and taking his another step forward, fighting the wind. He sank into the snow almost up to his knee. “ _Where did Nic go?”_

 _“For medicine!”_ he hollered back, but the wind whipped his voice away into the gale.

But she nodded and pushed on his left shoulder, and he followed her direction as they waded through the snow. Some of the tents had collapsed; a few soldiers staggered past them, trying to find another tent. With Sera hanging onto the back of his blanket, Gilberto trudged toward what he suspected was a healer’s tent. The moon glowed huge and harsh overhead, turning the world strange and milky white, just bright enough to see by.

They didn’t make it—halfway there, Gil’s toe snagged something, and he tumbled face-first into the snow, coughing and struggling to right himself before he could be soaked through. He turned, and his breath caught—he’d tripped over the Inquisitor. Sera was already on her knees, digging away the snow that had half-covered the man and leaning down to shout in his ear.

Teeth clenched, Gilberto crawled forward and grasped Nic’s arm, hauling him close and motioning for Sera to do the same. Together they managed to stand with the Inquisitor slung between them, limp as a doll, and began to stumble back toward the tent. Sera tugged on his ear, and Gil looked down to see her pointing at Nic’s belt, which sagged under the weight of the rucksack lashed to it. Gil nodded and offered her a thumbs-up, and found himself a little charmed by her answering grin.

It took twice as long to get back with Nic between them, and Gil’s legs felt like lead as they crashed through the tent opening. Varric scrambled to close the flap behind them, throwing several blankets over Sera and leaning over to clap Gilberto on the shoulder.

“Nicely done, thief—we owe you one.”

“What happened?” The Bull demanded, sitting up and crawling over to them, flipping the Inquisitor onto his back. “Koslun’s balls, he’s bleeding!”

Gilberto pushed his snow-sodden hair out of his eyes, shivering even as he tipped the Inquisitor’s head to the side. A nasty gash had appeared above his left brow, bleeding sluggishly. “Wind’s throwing around all matter of shit—must have gotten himself clocked and passed out.”

“He’s g-got p-potions,” Sera said, teeth chattering, and Gilberto hurriedly opened the rucksack, breathing a sigh of relief when five bottles full of the precious ruby liquid spilled out. The Bull snatched one up and returned to Dorian, looking worriedly over his shoulder to make sure Varric did the same for Nic.

Gilberto sat back on his heels, dropping his soaking blanket and shivering, rubbing the tips of his ears between his thumb and forefinger, praying they weren’t frostbitten. A fresh blanket fell around his shoulders, and he looked up to see Sera beaming at him.

“Pretty brave, Sticky,” she said, punching his shoulder. “Going after Nic like that, yeah? Whatcha do it for?”

“Uh. Well. He didn’t execute me, even though that Seeker wanted him to.” Gil settled into the blanket gratefully. Now that the feeling was returning to his limbs, they all ached something fierce. “I kind of owed him one.”

Disturbed, perhaps, by all the commotion, Bartholome/Fidget wiggled his way out of a discarded blanket and hopped across the tent, standing up on his hind legs and twitching his ears. After a moment’s deliberation, he sauntered over to Gil and reared up, placing his paws on Gil’s knee and looking up at him with dark, strangely intelligent eyes. After one baffled moment, Gil cautiously opened the blanket, and the nug jumped into his lap without a second more delay, nestling comfortably against his belly and chirping.

“Lookit that!” Sera said, grinning widely. “Bartholome likes you! You’re alright, Sticky.”

Someone groaned loudly, and Varric whooped as Niccolò sat up, cradling a hand to his head. The Inquisitor glanced around the tent, squinting in confusion when Sera offered him a cheery wave.

“—Uh. What?”

“You collapsed outside,” Varric said, throwing a blanket around the Inquisitor’s shoulders before mussing his hair. “Ol’ Sticky over there went out and got you.”

“Sticky?” Niccolò looked at Gilberto and raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

“No need for the note of surprise,” Gil snorted, but he somewhat ruefully returned the smile Nic offered him.

“Thank you.”

“Eh. We’re square now.”

“Certainly.” Niccolò’s eyes widened, and he spun around to face the Bull. “Dorian—is Dorian—”

“Better now,” the Bull rumbled, stroking a hand over the mage’s hair, and indeed, Dorian seemed to be resting a little easier, his breath steady and slow. “Shit, Nic. You coulda died. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be—no. Don’t be.” Niccolò shuddered. “Maker, it’s _freezing_.”

“Let all the warm out with your coming and going,” Varric said dryly. “Nothing for it, team—better huddle up.”

“I get to cuddle the Iron Bull this time!” Sera announced, and bounded across the tent to all but leap into the Bull’s lap.

“Oof! Well, that’s alright, I guess…but hey, why don’t you get on Dorian’s other side? Keep him nice and warm for me?”

“Sure! Can I pinch his arse, too?”

“Uh. No.”

As it happened, it was Varric who flopped down on the Bull’s other side; Sera curled up enthusiastically against Dorian’s back while the Bull pulled the mage into his chest, holding him close. Gilberto was perfectly happy to curl back into his corner until Niccolò leaned toward him with a hand out.

“Come on, Sticky,” the Inquisitor said, and flashed Gil a smile. And for whatever damned reason, Gilberto’s heart skipped a beat, drumming an ache behind his ribs. “Don’t want those ridiculous ears to get cold.”

“You arse,” Gilberto replied, but he was already crawling across the tent, settling down slow and cautious at Nic’s side.

The fire runes were finally fading, casting them into darkness. Sera whispered something, and the Bull guffawed; Nic told them to go to sleep. Gilberto lay as still as possible, heart in his throat. His shoulder just touched Nic’s—not enough to be intimate, too close to be just friendly. For warmth, he told himself, while the tips of his ears started to burn.

For warmth.

  
  



	3. In Which Dorian and Gil Have It Out

_“Please, no_ — _please! Not the girl, please, not the girl, not Lyera—I’ll do anything—”_

Someone was screaming—a girl was screaming.

_“Don’t! If all you need is a mage—if all you need is an altus mage—please—leave her, leave Bull, just please—”_

He heard them, like they were a thousand leagues away—echoes.

 _“I’ll do anything_ — _use me, you can use me—just please—don’t hurt them—not my family_ —”

Gilberto woke, rolled over, and punched the Inquisitor in the face.

“ _Ouch!_ Shit! What the—”

Niccolò rolled over and elbowed Sera in the small of her back; she grunted and lifted her head, the crown colliding with Bull’s jaw; Bull sat up with a roar, waking Dorian; and Dorian set the tent on fire.

It was to this pandemonium that Gilberto came round, lungs suddenly full of smoke, coughing and hacking while hands dragged him upright and shoved him out of the tent. He stumbled and hit the ground, swallowing dirt, and moments later Sera landed on his back with an _oomph_ ; the Bull came charging out, snagging bits of tent on his horns, with a loudly protesting Dorian slung over his shoulder, and Nic backed out last, looking tired and haggard, lifting his hands to cast ice across the burning tent.

 _“Vishante kaffas,_ what the _fuck!_ ”

“What the _fuck_ yourself!” Sera howled, jumping to her feet and pointing an accusing finger at Dorian as the Bull gently lowered him to the ground. “Quit setting shite on fire, Sparkler!”

“I didn’t _intend to,_  obviously, you miserable little half-wit!”

“Who you calling half-wit, you poncy stupid mage!”

“Indecent simpleton!”

“Fluffy _pouf!_ ”

“Onerable buffoon!”

“ _Cum-guzzler!"_

Dorian drew up short, mouth open—and then burst into laughter, clutching an arm around his wounded midriff while he bent over to press his forehead to his knees. Sera put both hands over her mouth and cackled, eyes shining with mirth, while the Bull rolled his eye, though a smile perked the corners of his mouth.

“Maker’s breath.” Varric approached them, holding a bowl of oatmeal, eyebrows raised. “What did I miss?”

“Sparkler set the tent on fire,” Sera said, still giggling.

“Well, Bull woke me up!”

“Sera _headbutted_ me—”

“Because Nic bloody well hit me in the back!”

They all looked at the Inquisitor, who was just finishing dousing the tent; he blinked and shrugged, scratching the back of his head. His eyes flickered to Gil—who stiffened—and then downward again.

“I was—dreaming, I suppose. I apologize.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “If it’s not one thing with you people, it’s another. Nic, Cullen wants to see you. He’s got a report on our damages from the storm.”

“Of course,” Niccolò sighed, pulling on his heavy gloves and fastening up his cloak. “By the way, where’s the nug?”

“I got it,” the Bull grunted; he had the nug cradled in the arm he hadn’t been using to ferry Dorian to safety. “Poor little thing shit all over me.”

“I suppose that’s what you get for making me set the tent on fire,” Dorian sniffed, and squawked in protest when the Bull leaned down to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah, making you set shit on fire is _apparently_ what I do best.”

“So help me, Bull, if you mention the damned—”

“Remember the curtains?”

“ _Dammit!_ ”

Niccolò smiled and strode past them, struggling a little in the deep snow, and paused to touch Gilberto’s elbow. “Will you walk with me?”

Gilberto nodded with some reluctance, unmiring his boots and trooping after the Inquisitor with a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d managed to snag a blanket from the tent—rather, had still been tangled up in one when Nic threw him outside—but he still shivered in the cold.

“Want to come in?” Nic asked, indicating his cloak, and smiled a little when Gilberto scowled at him. “We’ll find you something warmer. Care to tell me what happened back there?”

“Not really.”

“I can assure you, I’d keep anything you told me in the strictest confidence.”

“Yeah, I figured. It’s just—I just had a nightmare. That’s all. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Not your fault our Dorian has a proclivity for setting things on fire,” Nic replied mildly. He heaved a sigh, raking a hand through his short hair; Gil noticed, for the first time, the dark circles beneath his eyes. “We’re bound to have dead, after that storm.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Gil shrugged. “Nothing you could have done.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I—”

“Shit, Inquisitor, you can control the _weather_ , too?”

Niccolò shot him a glare. “Of course not.”

“Then don’t beat yourself up. It’s annoying. If you’ve got dead people, everyone will need you to keep your head together. Right?”

The Inquisitor studied him a moment, grey eyes narrowed, and nodded. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

They stopped at the quartermaster’s tent and found a thick woolen cloak that was only too small by a hair, and Gil nestled into it gratefully as he and Niccolò continued their trek across camp. Nic was right; even as they walked, soldiers dug their friends’ bodies from beneath snow-crushed tents, or nursed frostbitten limbs already turned black and hard. They passed a girl sobbing openly over a young man’s corpse, and Gilberto had to push on Niccolò’s shoulder to keep him moving.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

“I said we were square last night, and you agreed.”

“I did.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

Niccolò stopped and turned to face him, mouth set in a frown. Gilberto stared back at him, breath catching a little at the intensity of that gaze. When the Inquisitor spoke, his blood turned to ice.

“Who’s Lyera?”

Gilberto sank his nails into his palm, resisting the urge to run. “What?”

“Lyera. You kept murmuring the name in your sleep. And Cole picked it out of your head last night.” Niccolò canted his head to the side, eyes searching. Curious. “Who is—she? A friend? Lover?”

“That’s not—” Gil stopped, struggling, and swallowed. “That’s none of your business.”

“No. I suppose it’s not.” Niccolò drew up his hood, shivering visibly in the cold. “You were right. A life for a life. Dorian might have died in that tent if you hadn’t helped me get the potion to him in time, so perhaps I owe you one now, Gilberto. As such, whether you stay or go—that’s your choice. But I’ll tell you this.” And he smiled now, a gentle, warm thing that softened every hard angle of his face and made the breath quit Gil’s lungs. “Those who run with the Inquisition tend to find the things they’re looking for.”

He turned and walked on, heading for the command tent nearby. Gilberto watched his retreating back, pulse pounding, torn by indecision. But Niccolò looked back, quirked a small smile, and when he ducked into the tent, Gilberto followed.

 

* * *

 

“Ah—” Dorian tipped his head back and grit his teeth, exhaling hard through his nose while Bull rested a hand on his shoulder. “ _Ah_ —hurts—”

“I know,” Bull murmured, coating the cloth liberally in the small pot of salve at his side before dabbing at Dorian’s wounds. “Healer said we gotta keep it clean. Hang in there, big guy. Yeah? Come on.” He leaned forward and bared his teeth, unable to suppress a smile when Dorian gave him a withering look. “Get tough, ‘Vint.”

“I am plenty tough, thank you,” Dorian said, tightening a hand in the sheets as sharp, searing pain crept up his midriff. “Mmn—distract me.”

“Uh. Want to talk about last night? You weren’t doing so well.”

“I was having this awful— _mmph_ —n-nightmare.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure.” Dorian flinched, fist clenching until his knuckles turned white. “Someone named—mm. Something else—talk about something else.”

“Sure.” The Bull cast his mind around. “Why Bartholome?”

“It— sounds aristocratic.”

“Yeah, but it’s a _nug_.”

“Precisely. An aristocratic name to elevate a very small creature above its— _nn_ —c-correspondingly small stature in the world.”

“Yeah, but Fidget suits it. Why should it have to pretend to be something it’s not?”

“Having aspirations is not tantamount to playing _pretend_ ,” Dorian grunted. He reached up and placed a hand on Bull’s wrist, inhaling sharply. “Oh—wait—”

“Need a break?”

“Yes…”

Bull murmured an assent, setting aside the cloth and leaning forward to press a kiss to his lover’s brow. The new tent they’d managed to wrest from Cassandra was just large enough for the two of them; come hell or highwater or snow or whatever, Bull didn’t intend to let Dorian go through this with a handful of spectators again. Although he did shudder to think how last night might have gone had Nic not been there. “Hey. You’re going to be alright. You know that?”

“Of course,” Dorian said, sighing and tipping his head to the side to let the Bull mouth at his neck. “Altus mages aren’t so easily felled, especially not by mind-washed barbarians swinging swords.”

Bull smiled against soft brown skin, running a fingertip lovingly across the bruise he’d left just two days before. “Damn straight.” He straightened and picked up the cloth again, waiting for Dorian’s affirming nod before pressing it back to his injuries. “Hey. I was thinking.”

“Oh, dear. I shall alert the appropriate authorities. Cullen will want to mount an advance force, and Leliana will need to gather what few reports exist of similar events—”

The Bull rolled his eye. “Look, Cum-guzzler, maybe listen to me for a sec.”

“Oh, Maker,” Dorian said, chuckling, and broke off with a sharp intake of breath. “D-Don’t make me laugh. What’s on your mind, _amatus_?”

“I was thinking we should get tattoos.”

Dorian blinked at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You pierced your ears, and....well.” He trailed a finger over the little golden ring in Dorian’s left nipple, winking. That had been an impulsive decision on the mage’s part, and at first the Bull had teased him about it—until he realized that skin got damn _sensitive_ when it rubbed up against metal all day. “You like the body modification stuff, right? Is that what it’s called?”

“I do, and it is,” Dorian replied, slowly, taking Bull’s hand and thumbing the Qunari’s scarred knuckles. “Alright. What sort of a tattoo would you want?”

“Oh, I’ve already got that figured out." He leaned forward and slapped a hand across his buttock. "‘Property of Dorian Pavus,’ right across my ass.”

Dorian sighed and let his head drop back against the pillows, closing his eyes. “I thought you were being serious.”

“I am! Deadly serious!” Bull grinned, nudging the mage. “Come on, what would you get?”

“... _Kadan._ ”

“What?

“ _Kadan._ ” Dorian ran a hand up his chest and paused with his hand across his breast, tapping a fingertip just beneath his collarbone. “Right here.” He opened his eyes and smiled at the dumbfounded expression on the Bull’s face. “Well?”

“...Yeah,” Bull murmured, and leaned forward to kiss him, deep and slow, growling his approval when Dorian opened his mouth and offered up his tongue. “Yeah. That’d be cute. I’ll get _Amatus_ , then. Same place.”

“In addition to the one on your arse.”

The Bull chuckled against the mage’s mouth, rubbing their noses together. “Sure, _kadan._ Whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

Gilberto liked tending horses. He’d never one been wronged by a horse—never been thrown, never been snapped at, never been shoved by one of their unwieldy asses. They settled in his presence a way no man or woman ever had, and he liked caring for them in return for their unwavering trust. So he was happy to wash down a handful of horses when Cullen lamented how hard the return to Skyhold would be on their mounts. The beasts deserved a bit of pampering before what was to come.

“The Iron Bull rides that one.”

Gil turned from the massive black destrier he was brushing, arching an eyebrow at the altus mage leaning against the stable door before turning back to the beast. “I thought its spine looked a little worse for wear.”

Dorian chuckled, pushing off the door and stepping inside the worn wooden walls, reaching over a stall door to pat his favored mare. “I heard you saved Nic last night.”

“Not so much _saved_ as left the tent because the Qunari looked like he was ready to kill the next thing that breathed—and then happened to trip.”

“Regardless—thank you. He’s a tremendous pain in the arse, but I don’t know what we’d do without Nic.”

Gil shrugged and didn’t offer up a comment. The destrier knickered and tossed its freshly brushed mane, seemingly pleased with his work. Dorian hesitated before speaking again.

“I wondered—you seem a little familiar.”

“Maybe you just have trouble telling elves apart. That seems to be the most common excuse for you ‘Vints. Might as well fall back on it.”

“I can tell elves apart well enough, thank you,” Dorian responded quietly. The mare shook her head and snuffled at his hair, which he endured with a pensive grimace before stroking her nose. “Have we met? In Val Royeaux, perhaps? Or anywhere, really—Maker knows Nic’s dragged me all over this gods-forsaken kingdom.”

“Don’t think so.” Gilberto refilled the feeding trough, letting the ‘Vint stew in the silence that followed.

“This is—awkward.”

“You get ‘awkward’ out of long, strained silences? Never will figure out you Tevinters.”

“Is it because you looted my apparent corpse on the battlefield? I’ve forgiven you that. You were doing what you do, after all, and my possessions have been… recovered.”

“If  by ‘recovered,’ you mean your Qunari stud tried to beat my face in, then yeah, I suppose they have been.”

Dorian stiffened, chewing on the inside of his cheek and pressing a careful hand to his bandaged injuries when his heart sped up a bit. “I apologize on his behalf. The Iron Bull can be—well. He can be a bit _Bull_ , if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t. I don’t know you people.” Gilberto moved on to the next horse, hushing it gently when it knickered at him. “Certainly don’t know you. Was that all?”

Dorian finally stepped away from his mare, facing the thief with a frown. “Look. If you’re going to be working with the Inquisition, we’d all be better off if we could at least be civil. You telling me what’s got your hackles raised might be a good start.”

Gilberto pursed his lips, turning away from the horse to return the mage’s glare. “Ever consider that maybe some people just don’t _like_ you, ‘Vint?”

“Of course I have. I’m Tevinter. By virtue of my bloodline, most of Thedas dislikes me on sight. But I’m not trying to save the world with most of Thedas.”

Gil snorted, shaking his head as he turned back to the horse. “I’m not gonna start any trouble with you. I won’t be around long, anyway. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

Dorian sighed, offering his mare one last pat before heading for the door. “Fine. I’m sure we’ve met somewhere before; do come see me if you’re interested in dislodging your head from your arse and helping me figure out where.”

The thief declined to grace that with a response.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they all rose with the dawn and burned the bodies of the fifteen soldiers who had died in the storm. The silence hung too heavily around them; words and prayers wound up weighted down by the snow. Gilberto stood at the fringe of the little gathering, watching Niccolò; the Inquisitor stood with his sword planted in the ground, his hands crossed on the pommel, eyes closed and his chin dipped to his chest. Cassandra and Cullen stood at his back, somber faces turned toward the pyre. Some of the faces Gil had come to recognize were conspicuously absent—Sera, for one, and Varric, for another. When the prayers lost his interest, he gazed around the assembled group. The Iron Bull stood on the other side of the pyre; as Gil watched, the Qunari slid an arm around Dorian’s waist and tugged him into his side, and the mage let him.

When the bodies had been reduced to ash, Cullen rounded his half of the troops, and they mounted with a great clamor, voices rising where the prayers hadn’t, rejoicing at the prospect of returning home. Gilberto hovered by the stables, watching the soldiers guide their horses into knee-deep snow.

“We’re buggered if it snows again.”

He glanced down, smiling at Sera’s sudden appearance at his elbow. “Yeah. Best they leave now.”

“No, not Cullen and them, _us_.” Sera sighed and kicked at a snowdrift. She looked cute in her oversized parka, the hood falling low over her brow, obscuring her short hair. “Wish I was going home now.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I can’t go if Sparkler don’t.” She shrugged and waved when Varric glanced back at them; the dwarf lifted a hand and offered them a weary smile before kicking his horse into a canter.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re friends? Plain as day, that, Sticky Fingers.”

“We’re talking about the man you called ‘cum-guzzler’ yesterday, right?”

“Yeppers, that’s the one.” Sera giggled, rubbing her running nose on her sleeve. “That was a good one, hey?”

“Yeah. Good one.”

The elf punched his arm and skipped off, scampering up onto the Iron Bull’s shoulders. He permitted it with a chuckle, letting her dangle her skinny legs over his chest and prop herself on his horns. Gilberto watched them with an inexplicable tightness in his throat.

“Alright, thief?”

He wiped a hand across his face before turning to face the Inquisitor. “I’m fine. Sorry for your loss.”

Niccolò hummed and nodded; his smile was weary. “Thank you. You’re staying, then?”

“For now, I guess. I’ve got nowhere better to be.”

The Inquisitor grinned. “You’d rather be on the side of a mountain, freezing with strangers, than running in the other direction?”

Gilberto chuckled and thumbed his nose. “You may not have noticed, but the world’s literally gone to hell out there. My type know to keep their heads down when the going gets rough.”

“Perhaps I underestimated you. You’ve been here—what, three days? Four? And you haven’t once tried to escape.” Niccolò tipped his head, beckoning, and Gilberto followed him with a chuckle.

“Yeah, well… maybe I just like the view.”

The Inquisitor paused, looking back at him, and huffed a breath. “You’re flirting with me.”

“Yep.”

“Have you— _been_ flirting with me? This whole time?”

“Pretty much.” Gil jogged a little to keep up with the Inquisitor’s wide strides, grinning widely. “You like it?”

“It’s a little—ridiculous. Honestly.” Niccolò looked over at him, eyebrows raised. “You don’t know the first thing about me, for starters.”

“I know you care about your troops,” the thief quipped. “I know you’ll brave a storm to help your friends. I know you’re smart, and I know the pressure of being held up as a vicar of a god has worn you out. I also know you’ve got an impossibly cute little ass.” He smiled brightly when Niccolò scowled at him. “So what more should I know?”

“Any number of things.” Niccolò led them toward the stable; Gilberto wondered if they shared a kinship with horses and was delighted to see the ease with which the Inquisitor greeted his mount. “Where I come from, for instance. Why I’m here, with the Inquisition. My hobbies, my favorite book?”

“Let’s see—Ferelden, you’re the Inquisitor, you inquisit things, _Hard in Hightown_?”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong.” Niccolò tossed the thief a hoof pick. “Not even a good try. You disappoint me.”

“Alright,” Gil said, laughing, and sat down on a nearby stool, taking the horse’s hoof into his lap. He began to carefully pick at the crap encrusted in her shoe, patting her flank when she tossed her head. “Tell me where you’re from. You already know I’m from Minrathous.”

“Fair enough.” Niccolò crossed his arms over the mare’s back, stroking her mane. “I’m from Ostwick, in the Free Marches. Just south of Tevinter, actually.”

“Mm. Your family name?”

“Trevelyan.”

“Ah. Noble, then.”

“As it were.”

“And your family? Are you close to them? Brothers, sisters?”

“Two sisters, both older, and a brother. We’re very close. My mother died some time ago, but my father is still alive. I come from a lesser branch.”

“Less pressure.”

“Less respect,” Niccolò snorted. “The upper branch would never send one of _their_ beloved sons out of the kingdom on some fool’s errand.”

Gilberto chuckled and waved the pick at him. “Careful of that chip in your shoulder. What’s your favorite book?”

“Ah.” Niccolò smiled. “That’s a secret, I’m afraid.”

“It actually is _Hard in Hightown,_ isn’t it.”

“You’ll never get me to talk, thief.”

Gilberto grinned up at him from beneath his hood. “I bet I could find a way.”

Niccolò’s nose and cheeks turned red, and he opened his mouth to retort—but he was interrupted.

 

* * *

 

“Oh.” Dorian broke a kiss and jerked his head up, brow furrowed in consternation. “ _Oh._ _Vishante kaffas._ ”

“What?” The Bull mumbled, opening his eyes with reluctance and looking up at the mage straddling his lap. “What’s wrong? You want to stop?”

“No. But we have to.” Dorian rolled off his lover’s thighs, reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head with a wince when his wounds ached. “I just remembered where I _know_ him from! _Kaffas_ , I’m such a _fool!_ ”

“What are you talking about?” The Bull reached for him, grasping the mage’s shoulder before he could bolt from their tent. “ _Hey_. Dorian. What’s going on?”

The mage turned back to him, pensive, looking almost as shaken as he had the day he was reunited with his father, and the Bull tightened his grip, every ounce of heat draining from his veins. Dorian _did_ this—went from eager lover to scared kid all in the blink of an eye. He shrugged Bull’s large hand from his shoulder, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be back.”

“Okay,” Bull said, nodding, but he reached out again and squeezed the young man’s hand. “You want me to go with you?”

The look in Dorian’s eyes said _yes,_ but he continued to shake his head, jaw tight. “No. Let me do this myself.” He leaned forward and kissed the Bull gently, offering him a small smile. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Just—thank you.” And Dorian kissed him again before slipping out of the tent, leaving the Bull staring in his wake.

He _knew_. He’d been chasing the fleeting memory around in his head all day, and now he knew. Dorian crossed camp with wide strides, shivering even beneath his heavy cloak. Their outpost felt lonely and desolate at only half capacity, and he found himself missing Cullen and Varric and Cassandra, almost as much as he missed their other companions back at Skyhold. Maker, when had he gotten so attached to the little blighters? Being so stupid over the Bull was bad enough without missing Vivienne calling him ‘darling’ and smoothing his hair back into place, or Scout Harding snapping him her unnecessary salutes, or Josephine inviting him down from his haunt in the library for afternoon tea. But even thinking of them brought a smile to his face.

And that was why, he realized, as he came upon Gilberto and Niccolò talking by the stables, that was _why_ he had to face this. Not because of them, but _for_ them. Because they would expect nothing less of him, of the man he'd become. He was no longer the scared little boy who had run away from home.

“Gilberto!”

The thief looked up from the horse—he had its hoof in his lap, picking debris from the shoe—and lowered the leg gently, getting to his feet and dusting his hands on his trousers. Niccolò (looking a little red in the face) stepped around the horse, frowning, looking back and forth between mage and thief as Dorian came to a halt, breathing fast.

“What’s going on? Dorian?”

Dorian inhaled deeply and turned to Gil. “Gilberto. I…”

The thief waited, and when Dorian didn’t continue, chuckled—but there was no humor in it. “Oh. So you remembered.”

“Yes. And I—I don’t know where to begin.”

“Then don’t.” Gilberto tossed Nic the pick he’d been using on the horse’s hoof. “I’m going to get something to eat. Coming?”

“Wait,” Niccolò said. “Remembered what?”

“It’s nothing—”

“It’s _not_ nothing,” Dorian said hotly, and tried not to quail when Gil turned those icy violet eyes on him. “It’s not. I’m sorry I didn’t remember you. I don’t have any excuse. Well. Actually, I have a thousand. But none of them are good enough to—I’m just—I’m sorry.”

Gilberto stared at him, and then his eyes narrowed. “You—oh. _Oh._ You’re _sorry_. Well, then. I suppose that makes it all better! Thank you, Master Pavus.”

“Look, I—don’t walk away from me!”

The thief snorted, drawing up the hood of his cloak. “I don’t have to take your orders. Not anymore.”

“I _never_ —you _know_ what it’s like!” Dorian exploded, closing the distance between them and seizing the back of Gil’s cloak. “ _Listen to me!_ You know what Tevinter is like, what the Imperium is like—you _know_ how I was expected to _behave_!”

Gilberto threw his hand off, turning and getting up in the mage’s face with a snarl. “I don’t give a _fuck_. I do not give a single flying _fuck_ what was _expected_ of you, you spoiled little _prick_.”

“I didn’t _want_ it!” Dorian shouted at him; the tips of his cloak were beginning to smolder. “Any of it! I didn’t want my family, or Tevinter, I didn’t want the blighting— _any_ of it!”

“It all works out, then—turns out they didn’t want _you_ , either!”

For the second time in a week, Gilberto got himself hit in the face. He stumbled into the snow with a grunt, landing hard on his rear, and Dorian went to his knees, clutching his hands around the wound in his midriff and groaning.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he gasped, and pressed a hand hurriedly over his eyes to hide his tears. “I’m so fucking _sorry_ , Gilberto. I am. I know that doesn’t _mean_ anything, I know it doesn’t change what—doesn’t change any of it, but I am sorry.”

“Fuck you,” Gilberto spat, staggering back to his feet, and he threw off the hand Niccolò placed on his shoulder. “ _Fuck_ you, ‘Vint.”

He stumbled away, hand cradling his bruised jaw, leaving Niccolò standing there with Dorian still crouching in the snow. The mage’s wheezing jarred him back to reality; Nic knelt at his friend’s side, easing his hands away from his stomach.

“You’re not bleeding again, at least.” He brushed an escaped lock of hair from Dorian’s brow, frowning. “What the fuck just happened, by the way?”

“I knew him.” Without further ado, Dorian sat down in the snow, sighing and raking his hands through his neatly coifed locks. “Gil. I knew him when I was a child.”

“In Tevinter?”

“Just so.”

“Er—how?”

Dorian chuckled bitterly, lowering his hand over his eyes and drawing a shaky breath. “Did Gilberto tell you how he lived in Tevinter?”

“I—he was, um—he was a…”

“My mother’s.” Dorian laughed, a low, hollow thing that made his chest ache. He flopped backwards in the snow, startling Nic, and spread his arms. It had begun to snow again, just a light powdering of the earth. He stuck out his tongue and caught a snowflake before he spoke again.

“A slave, I mean. Gilberto was one of my mother’s slaves.”

 


	4. In Which Lyera Makes Her Debut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of child abuse (paragraph 3).

Between what he’d lost to time, to magic, and to repression, Gilberto didn’t remember a great deal of his time in Tevinter. It was a shame, in some ways—losing so much of his childhood. In others, it was a blessing. He did remember the summer villa, because he had scrubbed its every conceivable surface; because he had spent years caring for its ponies; because he had swept and cleaned and straightened and dusted and folded and stitched and polished until his hands bled and his knees ached. He remembered the slaves’ quarters, too small, foul-smelling in the summer, bitterly cold in the winter; he remembered Halward Pavus, who had come and gone with all the warmth and love of a deep freeze.

He remembered Genevieve Pavus, who had _owned_ him.

He remembered the sound the palm of her hand made across her son’s cheek; the way her strikes were calculated, careful, never leaving more than an angry red welt that would be gone within two days. Halward probably never knew.  

He didn’t remember ever sharing extended interaction with Dorian; the boy had been around for a few months out of the year, had spent most of his time reading or playing alone in the woods and lake that surrounded the villa. Gilberto hadn’t cared for or about the boy—he was a nuisance, a spoiled little brat. The son of the woman who enslaved him.

Gilberto hadn’t lied when he said he hadn’t robbed Dorian because of his enslavement. He hadn’t even _recognized_ the man. Hadn’t realized it was his former master until Dorian introduced himself from Bull’s lap. And Dorian was right—he, himself, had never given the slaves orders. Perhaps he cared for them, perhaps he simply feared infringing on his parents’ authority—perhaps he didn’t register their existence any more than he would have that of a particularly expensive piece of furniture. Gilberto didn’t know and didn’t care. Dorian was still _of_ that place. Tevinter, through and through, no matter how hard he tried to leave it behind.

The thief talked little on the way back to Skyhold, though it wasn’t as if anyone else had much to say. The horses padded softly through the snow, their heads lowered, manes and coats dusted with snowflakes. Sera rode beside him, nodding off every now and again in the saddle and waking only when she nearly fell out. When she dozed for the third time and woke again with a yelp, Gilberto nudged her.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just cold, is all.” She buried her nose in the fluff that lined the neck of her parka, shivering. “Blighting cold.”

Almost at once, a wisp fluttered to life by her left ear and settled in her hands, dancing over her frozen fingertips, and she smiled at Dorian’s back.

“Thanks, Sparkler.”

He waved a hand but didn’t look back. The wisp did lazy circles around the elf girl, and even Gilberto felt its gentle heat.

Not a moment later, he felt something else—something that made his hair stand on end. At the front of the group, the horses began to knicker, throwing their heads and stalling on the mountain path, ears flattened to their wide skulls. The wisp sputtered and died, and Dorian abruptly wrenched back on his mare’s reins, just barely managing to remain in the saddle when she reared up and came back down with a _thud_ , eyes rolling in her head, nostrils flared.

“Stop!” the mage shouted, yanking his horse around. Bull dismounted hurriedly and grasped the beast’s reins, drawing her down with low murmurs while Dorian struggled down from the saddle, clutching a hand across his chest. “Dammit— _Nic!”_

Gilberto looked up, and his breath caught—the Inquisitor’s horse was rearing, kicking its back legs at the next mount in line, but Niccolò was already on the ground. Gil had heard stories about the mark of Andraste, about the apparent gift she had bestowed upon this stranger from the Free Marches, but up until now, he’d never _seen_ it—because Niccolò was always gloved, always tucking his hand into his sleeve, taking great pains to hide his burden.

But now it glowed like _fire_ , burning away the leather of his riding glove while he writhed in the snow, snarling in pain. Dorian made to move toward him, but the Iron Bull threw an arm around him, pinning the mage to his chest even when Dorian shouted and beat a fist against him.

Gilberto jumped down from his horse. Another one of those moments he would spend a great deal of time ruminating upon—what if he’d just left, what if he’d just spurred his horse on, what if he’d turn tail and _run_ —but he he dismounted and closed the distance between himself and Niccolò with great bounding strides, passing Dorian and the Bull while they struggled against one another, while the other soldiers in their small party stared on in horror, at a complete and utter loss, while Sera called after him to stop.

The thief hit his knees at Nic’s side and rolled him over, grasping his wrist to see the mark. Something was wrong—clearly wrong. The mark, normally embedded beneath the Inquisitor’s skin, seemed to be trying to _pull_ itself free. Angry green tendrils scored Nic’s forearm, every vein popping out in stark relief, bleed seeping from around the mark’s edges and from beneath his fingernails, the skin of his palm turning mottled black and blue.

“Fuck,” Gilberto breathed.

“ _Nic!_ Dammit, Bull, off—get _off of me! Niccolò!_ ”

“Dorian—you’re _hurt_ , knock it off—you can’t—”

“Get him away!” Dorian shouted, and Gil realized with a start that the mage was speaking to him. “There’s a rune under the snow— _get him away, dammit!_ ”

Gilberto’s stomach lurched. He wrapped both arms around Nic’s waist and pulled, but was horrified to find that he couldn’t lift the younger man—his marked hand seemed anchored to the ground, fighting its way into the snow. Niccolò tried in vain to shove him off—blood had begun to leak from his nose, and his breath came in shuddering gasps that made Gil’s pulse pound in his throat.

“No, you don’t,” he snarled, and wrapped his hand around the mark.

The shock was immediate—excruciating. His veins filled with fire, his skin seared, every nerve in his body felt electrified. But he didn’t release Nic’s hand. He got his feet under him, nearly howling with the exertion, and hauled them both upright. Someone—in his head, on the mountain, somewhere—was _screaming_ , and it filled his ears until he couldn’t hear past it. The wind was surely a wail above it all, for the trees bent and twisted with its force, but he couldn’t hear anything over the unearthly screaming.

He took three steps—four—and then the Iron Bull met them, having let Sera pin a weakening Dorian. The Qunari snatched them each up under one arm and carried them bodily back to the waiting group, dropping them both in the snow. Gil curled in on himself, unable to separate his hand from Niccolò’s, crying out while that awful pain raked its claws along his insides.

“D-Don’t let go.”

Dorian’s hands closed over theirs, and Gilberto could _see_ the magic dancing across his fingers. That screaming had reached a fever pitch—he only heard Dorian speak as if in a dream, felt the vibrations of the his voice inside his bones. Niccolò’s eyes were closed, blood clinging to his dark lashes. Gilberto realized, in the final moments before everything went black, that it was the mark screaming—the mark of Andraste, trying to escape its mortal host.

 

* * *

 

It was just her luck.

Skyhold fortress had been _silent_ for _days_. Almost no soldiers, none of this ‘inner circle’—the Inquisitor himself didn’t seem to be around. Lyera had slipped around as quiet as a shadow, unnoticed by the troops who lingered around the fortress. She’d set up camp in one of its many unused towers and filched food from the kitchens and warm new clothes from unlocked quarters (and there were a lot of them—did these people honestly not expect thieves to come poking about?). She swiped a few new daggers from the Undercroft while its dwarven keeper was away, and found a new novel in the library upstairs. When no one was around, she sat in the Inquisitor’s throne and imagined what it would be like to throw around that much blighting power.

And then, suddenly, just as she was getting comfortable, _everyone_ got back. All at the same time.

No, not quite all at the same time—first this guy Cullen Rutherford with a veritable _fleet_ of troops, and suddenly Skyhold was full to bursting with loud, shouting soldiers, with people running this way and that, and there were a whole lot more opportunities for people to realize that she didn’t belong. The towers weren’t so empty anymore; there was always someone in the kitchens; people moved across the great hall day and night. No more Inquisitor’s throne for her.

The Inquisitor returned with the remainder of their small force two days later, and wasn’t _that_ a great hullabaloo. A scout came hollering up to the gates, babbling about the Inquisitor and a mage and some newcomer being unwell, and Lyera sat on one of the battlement walls and watched Commander Cullen—who had a head of great hair and a _really_ cute ass—rush down the mountain to meet them with a whole flock of healers at his heels.

The chaos of his returned held up for another day or so. Lyera chanced one meal at mess with the rest of the fortress, but got too many sidelong looks, too many people frowning at her while she sat by herself in the corner. Skyhold was big, but not that big—eventually, someone was going to realize she was an intruder.

“Hey, you there.”

She froze with one hand on the book she’d been trying to get from a bookshelf—she’d meant to leave that morning, at dawn, but—well, first of all, she’d slept in, and second of all, this book had just been _calling_ to her, and she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. She lowered herself slowly off her toes, heart thrumming in her chest while footsteps approached her from behind.

“I said, _you there_ —elf.”

Shit. She balled one hand into a fist, lowering the other to the hilt of the dagger on her belt. She didn’t _really_ want to kill this guy. Really, really didn’t. She hadn’t killed anyone in a long time, and she’d sort of gotten used to being a non-violent source of chaos wherever she went. Get in, take what she needed, maybe something pretty, and get out. She didn’t like hurting people.

A huge hand settled on her shoulder and turned her around, and Lyera swallowed as she looked up at her captor—big guy, a soldier, with horrible scars on his face and a snarl on his mouth.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” he said, squinting one eye. “What’s your name?”

“Gofuck,” she said, without thinking. “Gofuck Yourself.”

The soldier stared at her, stunned, and she kicked herself inside. Firstly, that hadn’t even been a good one, not really. Secondly, she was getting so salty a horse could use her for a saltlick. She’d have to watch out for that.

Before he could respond, she drove her knee up into his crotch. He reacted the way all men did when you hit them in the jewels—his breath left him in a sad little puff of air, and he crumpled, going to his knees. The second that meaty hand was off her shoulder, she kneed him in the jaw and bolted, bag bouncing on her back, dagger rattling in its sheath. Some of the other people in the library started shouting—she could hear the soldier’s voice above theirs, hollering for someone to seize her.

“Shit,” she muttered, barreling down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. She felt her magic boiling in her veins, felt the little patches of ice she was leaving underfoot and willed them to grow longer, leaving a slick trail behind her. “Shit, fuck—”

She threw open the door to the great hall, spun to her left—the double doors were open—and then an arm caught around her waist, knocking the wind from her lungs. She doubled over the offending limb with a grunt, scrambling to get free, but whoever had caught her was _massive_ , easily a few fold her size.

“Whoa, _whoa_ ,” a voice chuckled, and she strained her head back to see a huge Qunari grinning down at her. “Where are you off to?”

“Let go!” she gasped, and drove an elbow backward into his stomach. Damn, he was a meaty one. Probably hurt her a lot more than it did him. “Let me go, let me go, _let me_ —”

A startled group of onlookers had gathered, gawking at the sight of a Qunari effortlessly holding a struggling elf girl.

“ _Vishante kaffas_ , let me _go!_ ” she shouted, and to her great surprise, his arm turned slack around her. She threw him off and hit the ground with a thud, scrambling inelegantly to her feet and bolting for the nearest gap in the crowd of watching people. Two women screamed and jumped out of her way, and she only briefly stumbled before hitting her stride again, sprinting for the open doors. _Freedom_ —

Someone took her down from behind, and she smacked her forehead against the stone floor, stars dancing in her vision while her pursuer struggled to get up. Hands wrapped around her forearms and dragged her upright, pinning her roughly.

“Got you, you little bitch,” the soldier panted, and she recoiled from the stink of his breath. “You’re getting it now, elf.”

“She used Tevene,” someone said nearby, panic twisting up the man’s voice. “She could be Venatori, Bulge.”

“We should put her in the cells—”

“Turn her over to Cullen!”

“Let the Inquisitor take care of her—”

“ _Hey_.” The Qunari’s voice rose above the babble, and they all fell silent. He pushed through the crowd, a frown on his face, and fixed Lyera with his one good eye. “She’s a kid. You idiots honestly think Corypheus is gonna send little elf girls in as spies?”

“I’m not a kid,” she shot at him, and he gave her a wearying look.

“I’m trying to _help_ you, here.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She closed her mouth and nodded imperiously. “Continue.”

He rolled his eye. “Yeah. Anyway. Give her here, I’ll take her to Cullen.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” the Qunari said, eyeing the protesting soldier. “What, you think I’m not capable of carrying an elvish pipsqueak?”

“No,” Bulge (what a stupid name, Lyera thought) replied quickly, cheeks turning red. “I mean—of course you are.”

“Damn right.” The Qunari snagged a hand in Lyera’s collar and gently pulled her away from the soldier, offering the man an almost charming grin—almost. Lyera figured it was hard to be charming with a face that damn scary. “As you were.”

The Qunari marched her toward the front doors, hand still on her collar. Lyera had half a mind to just freeze the brute and make a run for it, but no way she would get to the gates and down the mountain before another Inquisition dog caught her. She couldn’t freeze _everyone_ in Skyhold.

She expected to be led up to the battlements, so the Qunari turning her away and toward a corner behind the main hold was a surprise. Her heart jumped into her throat—as bad as it would be to have to stand before this Commander Cullen guy, she _definitely_ didn’t want to disappear into a dark corner with a Qunari five times her size.

“Hey—uh—can we talk about this? I didn’t—”

“Oh, relax,” he snorted, and as they reached the shade of a small grove of trees, he released his grip on her. “I’m not taking you anywhere. Just want to talk a sec.”

“Oh. Shit. Really?”

“Yep.” He patted the top of her head, grinning at her scowl. “I’m the Iron Bull.”

“ _The_ Iron Bull?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” She tugged on one pointed ear, looking up at him warily. “Alright, the Iron Bull. What do you want?”

He grinned and held out a hand. “Book.”

“What?”

“The book you pilfered. It’s my friend’s favorite. So, if you please.”

She snorted and pulled it out of her waistband, slapping it into his open palm. “That’s it? You don’t want any of the other stuff I took?”

“Nope. Just the book. Thanks.” He tucked it into his belt and planted huge fists on his hips. “What’s your name, kid?”

She considered—a reprise, maybe, of the answer she’d given the soldier—but, well, the guy seemed _nice_. “I’m Lyera.”

“No last name?”

“Nothing I want to carry around.”

“Fair enough.” He ran a hand along one his horns, his mouth twitching downward. “So, I’m not gonna turn you over to anyone. I think Skyhold’s got space for one more little elf. But you shouldn’t walk around mouthing off in Tevene. ‘Vints aren’t wildly popular around here these days.”

She shrugged. “Accident.”

“Hey, I mean it. You’ll get nastiness just for being an elf. Don’t invite it because you’re Tevinter, as well.”

“I’m not Tevinter,” she shot at him, lifting her chin. “Being an elf from Tevinter doesn’t _make_ me Tevinter.”

The Iron Bull snorted and rolled his eye. “Sure, whatever. Just be careful. You know the Chargers?”

“Yeah—scary guys who hang around in the tavern?”

“Yep. Come see us if anything happens.”

Lyera eyed him warily. “Why?”

“You said it, not me. We’re big and scary.”

“No, I mean—why offer to help me out?”

“Oh. That?” And the Iron Bull laughed, and suddenly he didn’t seem so scary at all. “Ah, what can I say. I’ve got a weak spot for ‘Vints.” He patted the top of her hair and turned away, striding off with a whistle.

Lyera watched his departing back, hardly daring to believe her luck. Well, damn. Tevinters had a lot to say about Qunari, none of it particularly complimentary—but the Iron Bull was a regular stand-up guy. It had been a while since anyone had been that _nice_ to her.

She returned to her tower retreat, moving up a floor to reduce her risk of being found, and she had the Chargers on her mind.

 

* * *

 

“Hey.” A heavy weight settled onto his bed, a large hand smoothing over his hair. “Found your book.”

Dorian cracked an eye open, squinting in the sunlight filtering through his window (he really had to replace those curtains), and watched the Iron Bull delicately place the book on his nightstand. “Thank you,” he replied in a croak, and Bull frowned before pouring him a glass of water from the pitcher at his bedside. Dorian sat up to drink, wincing at the pull in his chest, dislodging a snoozing Bartholome. The nug sniffed and settled in at his side instead.

“You don’t look so good," Bull said.

“I don’t feel so good. How’s Nic?”

“Still sleeping, far as I heard. Seems okay, though.” The Bull’s hand moved from his hair down the side of his face, burly knuckles brushing his cheek before the Qunari stretched his palm flat across his lover’s chest. “How’s it all feel?”

Dorian closed his eyes, listening to his body. Mostly he just hurt—everything ached, from the healing wound across his front to the sore muscles of his back and shoulders. Physical wounds he could more than handle; it was his mana that worried him. He’d never felt so empty, so utterly depleted. The Fade, normally a dancing ghost at the edges of his consciousness, something he could almost reach out and touch, seemed a muted echo.

“Not sure,” he said at length. “Whatever that business with the mark _was_ , it was nasty.”

“No shit.” The Bull shifted, laying down beside him and propping his chin up on a fist. He kept a hand on Dorian’s body, soothing a slow caress along the line of his injury. Dorian shivered, the hair on his arms standing on end. “What the crap are we supposed to do about that?”

“Wait for Nic to wake up, for now. Gilberto, too.” Dorian tucked his head against the Bull’s arm and breathed out a sigh, closing his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You can sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Won’t you be bored?”

“Nah,” the Bull chuckled, his breath warm in Dorian’s hair, tickling along his scalp. “I’ll lay here and think endearing thoughts about you.”

Dorian snorted and tapped his knuckles against the Bull’s collarbone. “You redefine idiocy,” he grumbled, but there was no bite to it. He was warm, impossibly warm, drifting comfortably between waking and blissful unconsciousness, easing into the hand leaving tender touches along his wounded body.

“I’ve got you,” Bull murmured. “Sleep, _kadan_.”

Dorian did.

 

* * *

 

While Dorian nodded off, Niccolò woke with a start, a gasp closing up his throat while the last vestiges of a nightmare danced out of his head. He pressed a shaking hand to his eyes, blocking out the harsh sunlight, gulping in air while his heart hammered against his ribs and his pulse ached in his throat.

“Inquisitor?”

He moved his hand a fraction, squinting, and made out a woman’s silhouette in a chair beside him. “...Josie?”

Josephine lowered her book and sat forward, pretty face drawn with concern. She looked tired—her hair was down, a dark cascade around her shoulders, and she seemed small and shockingly _normal_ in a commoner’s shirt and trousers. “How do you feel?”

“...Like shit.” Niccolò lowered his hand and turned his head on the pillow, taking in his surroundings. “When did we get back to Skyhold?”

“Two days. You’ve been fading in and out.”

“I don’t remember being awake…” Niccolò made to push himself up and grunted when pain like fire laced itself up and down his arm. He looked down at his left hand and balked at the bandages that covered his palm, wrist, forearm. “What the _hell_ happened?”

Josie helped him sit up, fluffing a pillow against his back and offering him a glass of water. He drained it and then took the pitcher, parched beyond all reason, and a weary smile perked her lips while he chugged it down.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Riding out of Emprise du Lion. Riding up a mountain. Halfway to Skyhold, maybe. But then…” He shook his head.

“Dorian told us what he could. He said you rode into a trap rune hidden beneath the snow.”

“Trap rune. Maker, what kind?”

“Something foul,” she said darkly. “Some sort of bastardized version of a Templar ritual. Designed to strip away a mage’s magic.”

Niccolò’s blood went cold. “Did Dorian—”

“He was close, but he sensed it in time. He’s recovering.” Josie patted his uninjured hand. “He said the rune tried to rip the mark out of you. That man who was with you—Gilberto?—he stopped it.”

“He— _Gilberto_ did? How?” Niccolò looked down at his wounded hand, flexing his fingers. As damnable as the thing was, he suddenly couldn’t imagine his life without the Anchor.

“He—” Josephine hesitated, and Nic looked back at her, startled by her troubled expression.

“Josie? What is it? Is he—”

“No, he’s alive. Unconscious, but alive. He—we’re not sure how it _happened_ . Solas has been researching, and I’m sure Dorian will be buried in the library the moment he’s well enough to leave his bed, but… Oh, Nic.” She sighed and rested her head in her hands. “It doesn’t make any _sense._ ”

“Maker, Josie, you’re scaring me here.”

She gave a hollow little laugh. “Everything is scary these days.” She lifted her head, tired eyes fixing on him. “Nic… the mark _split_. Divided between you. Now this Gilberto carries the Anchor, too.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. In Which Dorian and the Bull Get Tattoos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just Adoribull with brief interludes of plot development.
> 
> Bartholome/Fidget isn't around in this chapter because his daddies are busy doing it.

Nope.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the Inquisition. The Iron Bull was alright. Varric was alright. Sera—hell, Sera was great. Nic was… well. Nic was beautiful, and smart, and Gilberto regretted not having the time to take him to bed, but between running headlong into Dorian Pavus and now _this_ , Gil just…

 _Nope_.

The moment he was recovered enough, he was out of there. He’d take whatever supplies he could get his hands on, arm up, and take off. He’d beat it all the way to Val Royeaux, find some fancy-pants mage there who could get this _thing_ off his hand, and then he was out. Maybe he’d head down to the Free Marches. Nah, too close to Tevinter. He didn’t care, honestly. He’d go anywhere that wasn’t _here_.

Gilberto sat brooding in his bed, massaging his bandaged right hand, when Niccolò came into his room. The Inquisitor looked about as bad as Gil felt. Just standing seemed to be taking it out of him, and the thief wasn’t surprised when the other man dumped himself into a chair the moment he entered.

“Can I see?” Niccolò asked, and Gilberto lifted his hand. The Inquisitor released a long, slow breath. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Are you alright?”

“Um. No?”

“Right. Stupid question.” Niccolò pulled his chair a little closer to Gil’s bed, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and for a moment Gilberto was blissfully distracted by that mouth. Not overwhelmingly sensual, but he still kind of wanted a taste. Just a quick one, to satisfy his curiosity. “You saved me.”

“I wasn’t really thinking.”

Niccolò’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Evidently not. Thank you, anyway. You didn’t need to.”

“I know. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” Gilberto sat up with difficulty, propping himself on his uninjured arm to face Nic more fully. “Listen. I want out.”

Niccolò sighed, raking a hand through his hair. The raven strands stood up straight, making him look like a vaguely agitated quillback. “I thought you might. I came to convince you to stay. Just for awhile.”

“Why?”

“Because the Anchor—the mark—is vital to stopping Corypheus. It’s the only thing that can close the rifts.” Niccolò winced as he unwound his bandages, looking down at the mottled skin of his hand. The mark had settled, but deep lacerations crossed his palm, and the skin all the way up to his elbow looked beaten and bruised. Gilberto wondered if he looked much the same, but didn’t look. “If this… split...has made it impossible for me to close the rifts, then we are left defenseless against the darkspawn.”

“So—what? You want me to hang around until you figure out if you can close rifts or not?”

“On the contrary, I want you to come with me to close one,” Niccolò said.

Gilberto snorted loudly. “Fuck that.”

“Look, I know you didn’t ask for this, but—”

“Fuck _no_ , I didn’t ask for this!” Gilberto interrupted. “ _A_ _ny_ of this! I’m not interested in going toe-to-toe with some ancient magister and his darkspawn army, I didn’t sign up to save Thedas, I just—I just want to find Lyera and _go!_ ”

“Who is she?”

“None of your fucking—”

“It is my business,” Niccolò snapped, and the mark on his hand brightened. Gil saw a crackle of electricity dance along the knuckles of his good hand. Fucking mages. “I’m not asking you to be self-sacrificing. Come with me. Help me close the rifts, and I will put all of the Inquisition’s resources at your disposal. We’ll find this… girl.”

Gilberto shut up at that. Tempting. He’d been looking for Lyera for three years, kicking back and forth across Orlais and Ferelden, ear to the ground. The kid used to leave a trail of chaos everywhere she went, but she’d gotten smart in the time since they’d been separated, learned to cover her tracks. But the Inquisition seemed to have gotten good at finding things…

“I’ll think on it,” he said gruffly, and Niccolò sat back in his chair, nodding.

“Who is she, Gil? Who is so important to you that you’d brave Corypheus to have her back?”

Gilberto canted his head, frowning a little. “Why’s it mean so much to you?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just a curious fixation, and I’m a curious man.” Nic shrugged. “That’s all. Is she your wife?”

The elf snorted. “Nah. I’m not married. You think I’d be looting bodies on a battlefield if I had someone waiting for me to come home?”

“No one, then?”

“No—” Gilberto paused and raised his eyebrows. “You asking if I’m available?”

Heat flushed Niccolò’s cheeks, and he looked away pointedly. “Of course not. The Inquisition calls to a certain type of person. We’re all looking for something. Someone.”

“Nothing called to me, Inquisitor. I’m here by accident.”

“So am I, but I am here nonetheless.”

Gilberto snorted and laid back, rubbing his marked palm. “She’s my sister. Lyera. My little sister. Not by blood—we grew up together.”

“She was…?”

“A slave, yeah. She cleaned Lady Pavus’s clothes. Day in and day out, scrubbing her little hands raw.” Gilberto closed his eyes, swallowing. “We left Tevinter together, but we were separated before we made it over the border. I’m almost sure she made it out, but I don’t know where she went.”

“We can help,” Niccolò said softly. “Leliana can find anyone.”

“That Lady Nightingale? Yeah, I’ve heard.” Gilberto sighed. “Fuck it. I’ve gotten as far as I can get on my own. Help me find her, Nic, and I’ll close your damn rifts.”

“Your help may not be needed. Maybe my Anchor will still be sufficient. We just need to try once.”

“Yeah. Deal.”

Niccolò nodded and got to his feet. “Thank you. It’ll be worth your while.”

“Doubt it, but sure, Inquisitor. Whatever you say.” Gilberto opened his eyes, watching Niccolò stride for the door. “Hey, Nic. I’m available.”

Niccolò stopped with one hand on the doorknob, and Gil saw the tips of his ears turn red. For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t get a response—and then the Inquisitor spoke.

“That’s… good to know.”

And he ducked out the door.

 

* * *

 

“Hey. Dorian?”

“...Mn?”

“How do humans make love?”

A pause. The mage resting in his arms tilted his head back and frowned up at him. “What a curious question.”

The Iron Bull shrugged, plucking their discarded sponge out of the water and wringing it across Dorian’s shoulder. It had taken no small amount of persuading and money and the Signature Dorian Pout to get it, but they had acquired a tub big enough for both of them to recline in comfortably—well. Big enough for Bull to climb in and then put Dorian on his lap, which suited both of them just fine. Dorian lay back against his lover’s chest, drawing lazy fire glyphs across the water’s oil-slicked surface to keep it warm while Bull ran gentle hands through the mage’s wet hair.

“How do Qunari make love?”

The Bull grinned, looping his arms around Dorian’s shoulders and drawing him close to press a kiss to his nape. “We fuck our partner into the mattress and then give them a big-ass dragon’s tooth.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “By that metric, you and I have been making love for some time now.”

“Well, yeah. I guess so.”

They both fell silent at that realization. Bull hummed, licking at the piercings in Dorian’s ear before slipping a hand between the mage’s thighs, rubbing against his swollen perineum. Dorian groaned and shifted, spreading his legs open until his knees touched either side of the tub. Bull had been teasing him for the better part of an hour now, dragging touches along his wet body, stirring him up. The tip of his cock poked up above the water’s surface. Bull cupped a hand along the shaft and flattened it against Dorian’s belly, back under the warm water.

“So?” Bull nipped gently his earlobe, fingers sliding to the mage’s hole and rubbing until Dorian whined. “What’s it like?”

“I hasten to remind you that I am no expert on the matter.”

“You must have done it once or twice.”

“Once. With Felix.” Dorian closed his eyes, dropping his head back against Bull’s shoulder and running his hands up his chest. “ _Mm_.”

“Feel good?”

“Yes. Fuck.”

“Mm, not yet. Keep talking.”

“You’re so eager to hear about my past affairs?”

The Bull paused to compose his answer. No, not _eager_. Not really. He liked re-living hot memories as much as the next guy, but at some point, hearing stories about Dorian’s previous sexual exploits had started to bother him. Not because Dorian had had sex before—Bull wasn’t an idiot and he wasn’t a prude. But because those stories usually started with “We’d both been drinking” and ended with “But he was gone when I woke up.” Koslun’s _balls_ , how was it possible that no one had ever been _gentle_ with the mage? How could it be that Bull was the first one to realize that Dorian loved having something in his mouth when he was fucked, that he bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes shut when he was touched through his smallclothes, that he mewled like a kitten when he got his ass eaten out?

“What’s wrong?”

The Bull shook himself and looked down, smiling at the look of concern on Dorian’s face. “Nothing.” He ran a finger along the pretty curve of Dorian’s jaw. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Hm.” Dorian shifted, tucking his head beneath the Bull’s chin and tracing a hand over the Qunari’s chest, pausing to run his fingertips along the dragon’s tooth that hung between Bull’s impressive pectorals. “It was… good, with Felix. He was kind. Kissed me. Did all the things lovers should do. But we were so _scared_. I don’t think I looked away from the door once—I was convinced Master Alexius would come in and catch us.” He shrugged. “Made it a touch hard to enjoy.”

Bull hummed, sliding a hand through Dorian’s wet hair. “Did you come for him?”

“Not that I remember. He came in me, and that was that.”

“Was there another?”

Dorian huffed out a laugh, but it petered out toward a moan when Bull’s fingers stroked over his hole again. “Mm. There was Rilienus. I don’t count that one.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was making love, and he was fucking,” Dorian replied flatly. Bull winced, tugging the mage closer and kissing his hair.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t tell him to be an insufferable prick.”

“Yeah, but… you shouldn’t have gone through that.” Bull raked his nails up Dorian’s thighs, scoring angry red lines into his skin, and leaned in close to nip at his earlobe. “Okay. So how would I do it? Make love to you like a proper human.”

Dorian released a breathy laugh, tilting his head to offer up the side of his neck and smiling when Bull bit in, suckling at his pulse. “ _Mm._ Just like that, for starters.”

“Yeah?” Bull let his mouth drift along Dorian’s jaw, back up to his ear. His piercings looked so pretty in the candlelight. “And then?”

“You’d touch me.”

“Show me.”

Dorian took Bull’s wrists and guided huge Qunari hands up to his chest, a long, slow breath leaving him while those palms dragged down his front, slipping a little on wet skin, fingers curling in a little to avoid the angry red line of his healing injury, and skimmed down his flat stomach to rest upon his hips.

“Like that?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

“Good. Can I touch your cock?”

Dorian chuckled and stood, turning around in a tight circle. As luck would have it, his crotch was just about level with Bull’s face, but he quickly reseated himself before he could be tempted. It took a little wriggling, and a great deal of water sloshing over the sides of the tub, but he managed to sit back in Bull’s lap and wrap his legs around the Qunari’s waist. Bull gripped him on instinct, hands finding familiar spots on Dorian’s ass to pull him closer, and they both sighed when their hard cocks pressed together.

“Patience,” Dorian murmured, catching Bull’s hand before he could start stroking them. “Let it build. Nice and slow.”

“Fuck,” Bull growled, and leaned forward to bite at his lower lip. Dorian permitted it for all of about three seconds before drawing back, tapping a fingertip against Bull’s nose.

“Ah, ah. Gentle. Kiss me first.”

“Happily,” the Bull said, and did so. The pressure of his mouth was a firm, hot thing, and Dorian found himself giving in to it too quickly, parting his lips and letting Bull lick his way into his mouth before he regained his senses and pulled back again.

“I said _gentle_ ,” he gasped, wishing he could hide the desperate twitch of his erection against his belly. “No tongue, not at first.”

“No wonder you humans are so crabby all the time,” Bull said, rolling his eye. “All pent up all the time, not getting anywhere in bed…”

“Shut up and kiss me, you brute.”

The next kiss was softer, almost fleeting, and the next softer still. Before long it was Dorian giving chase, lips parted and chasing Bull’s when the Qunari tugged away from him in a perpetual tease.

“What else?” Bull asked, grinning at the mage’s plaintive little whine. Dorian had started grinding on him, rubbing his cock against Bully’s belly without shame, each little bead of precome quickly washed away by the gentle lapping of the water. “I’ll keep kissing you, but tell me what else to do.”

“Hold me,” Dorian mumbled, guiding Bull’s hands along his body. “One along the small of my back—there—the other in my hair.”

“Oh.” Bull gripped him and pulled him close, using his hold on those dark locks to tilt Dorian’s mouth up into the next kiss. “Oh, _fuck_. You’re so beautiful. Now what?”

Dorian smiled into a kiss, parting his teeth to catch Bull’s lip gently, very gently. “So eager, _amatus_.” He held the _s_ a little long, hissed it, just to hear Bull groan and feel the Qunari rock up against him.

“Yeah, I want you,” Bull breathed, tugging on Dorian’s hair, pulling his head back until that aristocratic throat was bared to his searching mouth. “Want you all the damn time.”

Dorian licked his lips, trailing a hand along Bull’s collarbone, using the other to grip one magnificent horn. “I’m sorry, what do you want?”

“ _You_ ,” Bull growled, biting into him, and Dorian gasped at the heady rush of pain and pleasure, all blurred together until he couldn’t tell one from the other. “Want that mouth open, begging me so pretty… want that cute little ass spread wide for me.” Dorian keened, rocking against him, and Bull almost _snarled_ against his neck. “Want to watch you take it so deep and so good, _kadan_ , watch you come apart under my hands.”

Dorian jerked his head free of the Bull’s vice grip and kissed him, all hot and firm this time, let Bull’s tongue slip into his mouth and taste him, inhaling deeply through his nose so they could stay joined as long as possible.

“Fuck humans,” he gasped out, nuzzling his nose against Bull’s, whispering hotly against his mouth. “You’re going to take me to your bed and make love to me like a proper _Qunari_.”

The Iron Bull grinned at that, wicked intent making his features look equally terrifying and handsome, and he stood with ease, holding the slippery wet mage against his chest while he stepped out of the tub. Dorian clenched his thighs and straightened his back, getting his head a little above Bull’s so they could kiss deeply while the big warrior ferried him out of the washroom and toward the bed.

Bull dumped him unceremoniously onto the furs, strong hands guiding his legs open. Dorian hadn’t realized how damn _hard_ he’d gotten until he felt Bull’s breath gusting across his straining cock.

“Oh— _amatus_ —”

“Yeah, just like that,” Bull murmured, biting at the inside of his thigh until the glorious brown skin bruised. “Call out for me, beautiful.”

“Mn— _Bull_ —”

Two fingers slid into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Dorian moaned around them. He didn’t get a word out for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Niccolò was happy for the Iron Bull and Dorian—truly, he was. Bull was right, they were good for each other. A case of two people finding exactly what they really needed without ever realizing just how badly they needed it. He couldn’t claim to know exactly what was going on between them, because Dorian still pretended at some illusion of discretion, but if they way they looked at one another was anything to go by, they were almost certainly falling in love, and Niccolò was _happy_ for them.

That did _not_ mean that he enjoyed listening to them fucking day in and day out.

It just wasn’t _fair_ —his quarters were so removed from the rest of Skyhold, so _remote_ , how was it possible that he could _hear_ what they were up to? He figured it was his windows; sound carried across Skyhold, after all, and his quarters had so many damn windows that he was sure he must be leaving one open on accident at night. That, and the Qunari were just a _loud_ people.

That was how he wound up walking the battlements that night. He didn’t feel particularly well, and his hand throbbed, his mana still felt dry and it made his chest ache, but anything was better than lying in bed listening to the Bull finish himself off inside their favorite Tevinter mage.

Niccolò shivered, drawing his cloak close to his shoulders while wind kicked at his hair, tossing it across his brow. Winter barreled toward them like an animal in a rage, bringing with it brutally cold nights and eerily still, snow-covered mornings. Which meant that soon Dorian would be complaining morning, noon, and night—though hopefully Bull would keep him warm.

He was almost unsurprised to see Gilberto sitting on the wall’s edge, swinging his legs back and forth, a journal open in his lap. That _was_ surprising, and Niccolò stopped some distance away to watch the thief scribble away, rotating the journal this way and that, frowning at it and muttering to himself. Gilberto was an odd one, a paradox wrapped up in a person. Deliberately detached, yet inexplicably loyal. Sharp-witted and silver-tongued, yet incredibly compassionate and kind. A man with a dark past, a man with a little sister, someone he cared for so deeply that he would brave a battle that wasn’t his own just to have some chance of finding her again.

Compelled forward by that strange pressure in his chest, Niccolò stepped up behind the thief. “You draw?”

Gilberto jumped and hurriedly grabbed a nearby torch bracket, turning and scowling. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people sitting on the edge of a fifty-foot wall. Dick.”

Nic grinned, taking a seat beside him. “You’re right. Sorry. What were you sketching?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I said nothing,” Gil muttered, cheeks flushed, but Niccolò snatched the journal before he could tuck it away. “Oh, for—”

“Flowers?” Niccolò raised his eyebrows, thumbing through the ten or so pages previous. “Gilberto—are you a botanist?”

Gil grabbed for it and succeeded in stealing it back, tucking it under his cloak. “No. Just doodles.”

“They were very detailed.”

“Did you need something, Inquisitor?”

Niccolò smiled, lifting up his hood against the biting wind. “No. Just felt like some air. Are you well?”

“I guess.” Gilberto flexed his right hand. “Hurts a little.”

“Mine, as well. It ached when I first received it. It should fade with time.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the whistling wind, then Gil coughed.

“I, uh—I couldn’t sleep. Some of the folks around here are kinda… noisy.”

Niccolò nodded his sympathies. “Dorian and the Bull can be… enthusiastic.”

Gilberto flinched. “ _Ugh_ , I didn’t hear that. It’s one of the Chargers and some girl making all the noise near the tavern. So I tried to just go upstairs, but then it was Sera, so…” He rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m saying you need to walk your animals more frequently, okay?”

Niccolò laughed, nudging Gil’s shoulder with his own. “Alright. I will.”

A pause. “Maybe… maybe go for a walk yourself.”

Nic blinked and turned his head, found those brilliant violet eyes watching him. “I—oh. Are you propositioning me?”

Gilberto shrugged, but his face didn’t look so nonchalant. “If you want.”

The Inquisitor sighed, dropping the thief’s gaze. “Why? Why are you pushing for this?”

“I thought I told you already. You’re cute. I think you’re attractive.” Gilberto gestured around Skyhold. “We’re in the middle of the fucking mountains during what may possibly be the end of the world. Why not?”

“That’s it, then? Physical attraction?”

Gil snorted. “We’ve known each other—what, a week? The physical works fine. The physical is all you need to fuck someone.”

That was true, and had he asked a year ago, maybe Niccolò would have taken him up on his offer without a second thought. He’d had more partners than he could count, men and women both. He liked sex. He liked the intimacy, whether it lasted months or only a night. He liked seeing what people would do to him, what they thought he would enjoy, whether they would try to control him or let him dominate them.

But the Iron Bull had been much the same, hadn’t he? And now he looked at Dorian like he was the sun and moon. That thought made the pressure in Niccolò’s chest intensify, and he shook his head.

“Sorry. I’m not interested in… that.”

“What? Fucking?”

“Yes,” Niccolò said curtly, and got to his feet.

“Hm.” Gilberto watched him, head canted to the side. “Shame for someone so pretty to not be into sex.”

Niccolò felt his cheeks burn hot, and he turned away before the thief could see. “Oh, I’m very interested in sex. Just not with you.”

And he strode away, presumably leaving Gilberto staring after him. Listening to Bull and Dorian love the night away would be far preferable to spending another moment there with that absolute and utter _ass_ —

No matter how damn lovely his eyes were.

 

* * *

 

It was bound to happen eventually.

The Iron Bull had showed her a little sliver of kindness, but not everyone in Skyhold was prepared to do the same. Lyera was poking around in the Undercroft when the smith found her, arm buried up to the elbow in the Inquisitor’s storage chest.

Figures, Lyera thought glumly, once again being manhandled by a soldier up the stairs and into the great hall. Alright, so she’d gotten greedy. But damn, the Inquisitor had been hiding away some pretty daggers in that old box. It had almost been worth the risk of getting caught just to stare at that chest full of loot. Once she gave this guard the slip, it might even be worth it to go back.

The soldier marched her across the hall—several bystanders recognized her and pointed—and through another door, followed closely by another. The room they stepped into was brightly lit, walls lined with bookshelves, and an impossibly beautiful woman sat at a desk in the corner, hunched over a pile of paper with her fingertips massaging her temples.

“Lady Montilyet,” the soldier said gruffly, shaking the elf girl still captive between his hands. “Found this thief poking around in the Undercroft. Want I should throw her into the cells?”

Lady Montilyet lifted her head. Lyera had never been attracted to women, per se, not the way that might make her want to take one to bed, but she sucked in a breath. Shit, you didn’t have to like girls to see beauty when it was so in your face.

“That’s quite alright.” The woman frowned and gestured to the chair beside her desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Lyera blinked. Have a _seat?_

“Wha—but—milady—”

“I said it’s alright. Please, dear. You, ser, can leave us.”

The soldier reluctantly released her arm and took several steps back before bowing himself out. Lyera hovered, poised to run, but Lady Montilyet smiled at her so kindly that she thought better of it.

“No one is going to hurt you, young lady. My name is Josephine. What is yours?”

The elf paused, tongue in cheek. At length, she crossed the room and sank slowly into the chair. “Lyera.”

“Your family name, Lyera?”

“Haven’t got one. Milady.”

Josephine giggled, something girlish and gentle that didn’t quite suit a woman of her elegance. Lyera felt her cheeks redden. “There will be no need for that. I’m just Josephine here. That’s one thing I like so much about the Inquisition.”

“Yeah?” Lyera shifted in her seat. “That’s, um. That’s good.”

“How old are you, Lyera?”

“Twenty-two years.”

Josephine smiled, bending back over the documents piled high on her desk. Lyera glanced at them, unsure of whether she should be looking, but it mattered not at all—they were all written in languages she’d never even seen, let alone read. “The Iron Bull tells me you’ve made Skyhold your new home.”

Lyera scowled. Damn Qunari and their big stupid mouths. “I was just… passing through.”

“Oh? On your way to where, might I ask?”

“Nowhere in particular. It just...it got cold, you know?”

“Yes. I do.” Josephine glanced up from her paper. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“Well, I mean—this is the second time I’ve been dragged around by a huge smelly guy, so, you know. Maybe not much longer, after all.”

“I am sorry about that. These soldiers have good intentions, but they are not always as… how shall I put this? _Diplomatic_ , as they could be. I think that perhaps—”

A door opened somewhere nearby, and Josephine got to her feet. Three people strode out of the door that didn’t lead back to the great hall, all looking worse for wear. One man Lyera recognized as the cute-butted Cullen Rutherford; the other two were strangers.

“Inquisitor, Cassandra, Cullen,” Josephine greeted. “How fare preparations for the next run?”

“Oh, you know.” The Inquisitor stepped up to her desk as Cassandra and Cullen departed, muttering amongst themselves. He rapped his knuckles gently upon the wooden surface. “It’s the Fallow Mire. No one really wants to go. Cassandra was giving me advice on how I should bully together a party to accompany me.”

“Why not send some of Cullen’s troops?”

“After marching half of them through the snow? No, we’ll go ourselves.” The Inquisitor looked at Lyera for the first time and offered her a weary smile. “Who’s your guest?”

“Ah. This is the visitor Iron Bull found—rescued, I should say. She calls herself Lyera.”

The elf wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting—a dismissal, perhaps, or a polite introduction, because she didn’t even know this man’s _name_. She _hadn’t_ been expecting the look of stupefied shock that spread across his face, the way his jaw fell open and he stared at her like she was the first living creature he’d ever seen.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine said cautiously. “Is everything…?”

“Where are you from?”

Lyera blinked. “What?”

“Lyera, right? Where do you come from, where did you grow up?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned in closer and gripped her hand. Lyera jerked it back, tensing. “Were you—were you a slave? In Tevinter?”

It was her turn to gape. “What the—how the blighting shite did you—”

The Inquisitor sucked in a breath. “ _Maker_. Holy _fuck_. Lyera—will you come with me? Please?”

“What?” Lyera looked at Josephine, who stared back at her, clearly perplexed. “Wh— _no_ , I just—I just _met_ you.”

He turned to Josephine, but something like a smile was pulling at his lips. “Josie, please. It’s important. Come with us, if it will set the girl at ease, but…”

Josephine looked at him carefully for several long moments, but then she nodded. “Alright. Lyera, I’m not sure what this is about, but—this is Niccolò. Nic. He is the Inquisitor, and we can trust him. He won’t do you any harm. I swear this on my life.”

Lyera arched a brow, looking cautiously back up at Nic. “Where are we going?”

Niccolò grinned at her. “Nowhere frightening, I promise—I just don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

 

* * *

 

_“Ooh.”_

The Iron Bull paused and canted his head to the side. “Hurts?"

“Yes,” Dorian breathed, rocking his hips up against air and opening his eyes, gazing foggily up at the Qunari looming over him. “It hurts terribly.”

Bull leaned down to kiss him, groaning at the taste of Dorian’s tongue tracing his lips before that hot mouth opened. He broke away reluctantly, trailing kisses down the mage’s chin, throat, collarbone, before sitting up again and refocusing on the wicked-looking metal instrument in his hand.

“Good?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

Bull lined the needle up with the black outline traced into Dorian’s skin and gave it a tap, crooning quietly when Dorian whimpered and his hands tightened in the sheets. He didn’t know that he’d have the patience to finish the thing; they’d been rolling around together all afternoon, and the floor was a mess of discarded blankets and pillows. Dorian was a mess himself, hair tousled, sweat gleaming against his skin, blood-hot cock resting heavily against his belly while Bull tapped bold Qunlat letters into his chest. Bull wanted nothing more than to just _take_ the mage, bite bruises into his shoulders and slap his ass raw and fuck that come-slicked hole until Dorian came apart beneath him. But he wouldn’t—not yet, anyway. Not with his pretty mage spread out so vulnerable and so lovely under his gentle hands.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” Bull murmured, eyeing the way Dorian’s cock twitched when the needle’s bite drew a little blood.

“It’s— _mm_. It’s f-fine.”

The Bull smiled and kissed him once more before returning to his work. They powered through the rest of the tattoo, Dorian gasping and whimpering, torn somewhere between pain and ecstasy, while his lover ran soft touches across his heaving chest and whispered down at him in a broken mix of Common and Qunlat.

“So beautiful.” Bull put the finishing touches on the last letter and admired his handiwork for a moment before scooping out two fingerfuls of elfroot salve from the jar beside the bed and smearing it across the fresh ink, leaning down to run his mouth across Dorian’s temple when the mage hissed. “My _kadan_.”

Dorian drew his lower lip between his teeth, tilting his head up to look at the oil-smeared ink on his chest. “H-How does it look?”

“Hot,” the Bull replied honestly, and the mage laughed, letting his head fall back onto the pillows. Bull reached a hand between them, cupping Dorian’s cock in his palm and giving him a squeeze, delighting in the plaintive little moan he got in return.

“Oh—but—yours—”

“Uh, yeah, no.” Bull stretched out across the bed, nuzzling Dorian’s chin up with his mouth before gently biting into his lover’s throat, humming against his warm skin. “I don’t want you, uh, _distracted_ while you’re marking me for life. How do you want it?”

Dorian groaned, raking his hands through his sweat-damp hair, the new tattoo on his chest stinging with motion. “Your mouth, _amatus_ … please?”

“ _Fuck_ yeah…” Bull kissed him, suckled on his lower lip, already pinked and swollen, before sliding down the bed, leaving devious little caresses of his tongue and much firmer bites along the gloriously dark expanse of Dorian’s torso. His fingers traced the mage’s wound on his way down, mostly closed and shiny with elfroot salve. He bit a trail of bruises into Dorian’s stomach before parting the mage’s thighs. Those sinfully long legs lifted at once, draping over his horns, toes digging into his back when Dorian’s feet curled at the first swipe of Bull’s tongue across his cock.

“Oh, Maker… fuck… fuck, _vishante kaffas_ , fuuuck…”

“I get it already,” Bull chuckled. Any other time it would have been fun to tease his ‘Vint into a sobbing mess, but Dorian had been hard for an hour and Bull was _dying_ to get that needle into his own skin, so he opened his mouth and swallowed his mage to the hilt. Dorian wasn’t a small man by any definition, but Qunari were just bigger; Bull had his nose pressed into the dark thatch of hair on his lover’s pelvis in moments, breathing easily through his nose while he sucked the cock he loved into the back of his throat.

“ _Oh_ — _venhedis_ —”

None of that. Bull sucked down hard, and Dorian’s lower back bowed, a choked sob leaving him when Bull began to bob his head. The mage’s hips rolled, fucking himself into Bull’s mouth, and the Qunari fairly purred at the invasion, exaggerating every profane slurping noise simply because he knew it would drive Dorian wild. He let his hands roam—Dorian was being good, kept his legs around Bull’s horns, no need to pin him down—stroking warm palms up and down the mage’s thighs, over his hips, up his flat stomach. Easy to reach a pert nipple and give it a pinch, to reach down and pet the swollen warmth between Dorian’s legs.

“ _Amatus_ —”

Dorian’s hands left his hair, searching across the sweat-soaked sheets, and Bull laced their fingers together, scraping his teeth along the bottom of the blood-hot shaft, closing his eye with a soft hum when Dorian spilled down his throat. Bull shuddered, painfully aware of his own erection pressed into the bed, and stroked his thumbs over Dorian’s, felt the press of warm gold rings in the crevices between his fingers. He kept sucking until he felt the mage squirm at the overstimulation, then lifted his head, let his lover’s softening cock slide from between his lips with a soft, wet sound that had Dorian’s heels tightening against his back.

“Good?” he asked, grinning and wiping a hand along his mouth.

“Perfect,” Dorian murmured, offering him that lazy, indulgent smile that made the taste of come in his mouth well worth it. The mage pulled one hand loose and crooked a finger. “Come here.”

The Bull crawled back up the bed, tipping Dorian’s chin up in one huge hand and kissing him hungrily, felt Dorian wriggle and whine at the taste of himself on Bull’s tongue.

“So good,” Bull agreed, carding a hand through Dorian’s damp hair and catching his lower lip in a chaste kiss. “The best.” He slapped Dorian’s rear and grinned when the mage laughed against his mouth. “Should let my pretty little ‘Vint finish in my throat more often, huh?”

“I would be the last to raise an objection, I can assure you.” Dorian cupped Bull’s face in his hands and kissed him, soft and slow, and Bull leaned easily into that gentle touch. “Mm. On your back.”

Like he could argue when Dorian sounded like _that._ He did love the mage’s bedroom voice, all low and husky, thick with want. He rolled over and stretched out on his back, grinning when Dorian climbed on top of him and straddled his waist, running his hands across the lovely dark thighs spread across his body.

“Fuck, _kadan_. How’s one guy wind up with your pretty face, your wicked head, and your hot body, to boot?”

“Careful breeding,” Dorian replied, lighting a little flame on one fingertip and passing the needle through it, waiting until he felt the metal grow hot beneath his hand before removing it.

“Have you done this before?”

“Applied a tattoo to a Tal-Vashoth right after coming down his throat? No, I can’t say that’s on the extensive list of heresies I committed in Minrathous.”

“I specifically meant the actual tattoo part.”

Dorian chuckled, picking up the paintbrush they’d left in a dish full of ink and bending down over Bull’s body, carefully painting out the curling Tevene letters just below the Bull’s collarbone. “I’m not the only Tevinter with a flare for body modification. I decorated a great many bodies in my time, I can assure you.”

“Hm.” Bull rested his left hand upon the bed, relaxing his shoulder and chest, but let his right hand continue its slow, meandering path up Dorian’s body, counting the mage’s ribs. Dorian squirmed a little—ticklish—and the brush of his ass against the Bull’s hard cock made him see stars. “ _Nn._ So, uh—what’s the cause of that, d’you suppose?”

“Hm?” Dorian had been distracted, watching Bull’s cock swell against his ass, but turned and looked back down when his lover spoke. “Oh. For the tattooing, and the piercing, and such? I suppose it comes back down to the pressure to be the perfect heir for one’s family. You get so used to being a… a _tool_ . A vehicle for your family’s legacy. Back then, I’d have given anything to feel like _I_ owned some small part of myself—whether that meant piercing my ears, or…”

“Running away and spending every day and night fucking an incredibly handsome Qunari?”

Dorian smiled, leaning down to kiss Bull’s forehead. “One or the other. They’ve worked equally well. Now lie still.”

Bull eyed the needle warily as Dorian lowered it to his skin. “Is it, uh—is it gonna hurt?”

“Oh, yes. But never fear.” The mage quirked a grin at him and winked, which was so distinctly un-Dorian but so cute that Bull felt his heart clench. “I’ll kiss it better, _amatus_.”

 

* * *

 

Gilberto didn’t want to get up—ever, if he could help it. He’d never struck out so bad before in his _life_ . He knew he was good-looking. He knew all the right words, all the right moves. He’d never _failed_ to get someone into bed before. So what the fuck made Nic so different? And why did Gil _care_ so much?

The thief groaned and rolled over, pulling his blankets over his head. The pain still throbbing in his hand didn’t help matters one bit.

...The fucking _annoying_ pounding on his door wasn’t great, either.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he growled at last, throwing off his blankets and sitting up, scrubbing his hands across his face. “Fuck, fuck, alright already, I’m coming!”

He stood, shivering when his feet touched the cold floor, and padded across his (sadly tiny) room. He expected Nic—no surprise there. The Inquisitor seemed to enjoy bugging him at all hours of the day and night, particularly when he _really_ didn’t want to be bothered. He even half-expected Josephine, who was kinder than most and liked checking up on him, probably because he now bore half the Anchor that would save everything she had worked for.

He did not, however, expect to see his sister.

Gilberto could only stare at her for what might have been an eternity, stunned beyond words, beyond doing so much as moving, or breathing. She had grown up in the three years they’d been separated, lost some of her girlishness and started to look like a real woman. Some things stayed unchanged, though—the dark red hair, an unruly mess around her ears (which he’d always teased her about, telling her they were pretty prominent, even for an elf), large hazel eyes, cautious, reserved stance. She also looked damn _thin_ , and Gilberto had enough of his wits about to him to realize how _angry_ that made him, that she hadn’t even had enough to _eat_ , and she had a heavy cloak piled on, which meant she was _cold_ —

But she was also _here_. Staring at him. Looking every bit as dumbfounded and shocked and terrified and elated as he was.

“Maker,” he breathed, and caught her up when she lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her small frame and crushing her to his chest like he was trying to squeeze the breath from her lungs.

“Gil—” She broke off, breath hitching, and her arms tightened around his neck. “ _Gil._ ”

“Lyera.” His vision suddenly blurred, and he blinked rapidly, pressing his face into her shoulder. “Shit, sis, I—”

“I fucking _missed you!_ ”

“I—I missed you too. I’m sorry, kid. I’m so, so _sorry_ ”

“Fuck off,” she wheezed, but her sob might have been a laugh. “Fuck you to Tevinter and back, you prick.”

Gilberto smiled, squeezing her tight. He heard a door close and lifted his head; Josephine and Niccolò had left, leaving them in peace to reunite. Gil was thankful for it now—and Lyera _hated_ it when people saw her cry—but something in his heart gave a little tug. He would have liked, at least, to see the inevitable smile on Nic’s face.

 

* * *

 

Lyera ate like she hadn’t seen real food in months—and maybe she hadn’t. Gilberto sat by her side, picking at his plate, not feeling hungry for possibly the first time in his entire life. He sat across the little wooden table from his sister, who was bundled up in one of his cloaks, watching her scarf down everything that had been put in front of her.

“It’s just—” She paused to take a swallow of wine and made a face. “Ugh. The hell is that?”

“Not as good in Ferelden as it is in Tevinter.” Gilberto handed her his bread roll when she finished hers off, and for once, she took his food without complaint. Growing up, getting her to eat his share had been like pulling teeth. From a dragon. “Where have you been, kid?”

“Probably the same place as you—here, there, somewhere else by morning.” She finished off his roll and set to work on a steaming pile of potatoes, groaning her delight and putting her head down on the table. “What _is_ that?”

“Uh—butter, I’m guessing.”

“Well, shit. _Butter!_ I forgot how much I missed butter. Oh, and salt. Salt is hard to carry around, you know? I mean, it’s so good, but what’s the point if you can’t really cook with it? And milk! You ever tried to actually milk a halla? It’s not possible, Gil, I’m telling you.”

“Lyera,” he said quietly, and she swallowed loudly before falling silent. “You don’t have to—I mean—at least tell me you’ve been… okay?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno, Gil. As okay as I could be, I guess.”

“I don’t expect you to tell me it’s been the adventure of a lifetime. Just—no one’s… no one’s hurt you, or anything? I mean—generally, have you been—safe?”

Lyera looked up at him and nodded. “Yeah. Mostly. Had some scares. People can get pretty rough on the border, you know? The Imperium border, I mean. Lot of.... guys, you know. Assholes. Showed ‘em what’s for before they could try anything, though.”

Gilberto smiled and reached across the table to muss her hair. “That’s my girl.”

“You know it.” She spooned up a heap of potatoes and swallowed several mouthfuls before speaking again. “This is fucking insane, right? I mean, we both wander around for three years, sniffing around for each other, and then we _both_ wind up in the same place at the same time? That’s gotta be impossible.”

“Why’d you come here?”

She shrugged. “Figured the Inquisition would have good stuff.”

Gilberto burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair and clutching his stomach. “ _Damn_ , kid, I did a good job with you. I’ve been following the Inquisitor around for _weeks_ , picking up stuff off the battlefield.”

“Aw, you’ve been _looting?”_ Lyera grinned, nudging him with a foot beneath the table. “That’s weak. My lockpicking is out of control now, Gil, I mean it. I can pick any lock under the stars.”

“Yeah, _sure_.”

“I can!” Grinning, she sat forward, poking her fork at him. “So when do we leave?”

“Leave?”

“Yeah. I’m sick of this fortress. And of all these demons, you know? I say we blow Ferelden and Orlais until things settle down a little bit.”

“Oh.” Gilberto winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh—”

But she interrupted him, reaching across the table to grab his wrist and pull his hand down. “...Gil. What the _fuck?”_

He sighed; the mark had been glowing brightly, shining even through the heavy linen bandages swaddled around his hand. He unwrapped them gingerly, flexing his fingers before showing her his palm. Lyera’s mouth fell open.

“That’s the—the shiny thing. That the Inquisitor has.”

“Yeah.”

“You have it, too.”

“Yeah.”

She looked back up at him, eyes wide and fearful. “What does that...I mean… what happens, then?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot.” He tucked his hand back beneath the table, squeezing it into a fist in his lap. “It’s not a second Anchor—that’s what they call it. Nic’s Anchor… split. Part of it’s in me now. But the Anchor is the only thing that’ll close the rifts, so…”

“So what? _Fuck_ the rifts. Gil, this is all the more reason to—”

“Look, I know, okay?” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I know. But Nic and I had a deal. I was going to stick around long enough to make sure he didn’t need me for the rifts, and then he was going to—well, he was gonna help me find you.”

“Okay, well, I’m found,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “So let’s _go_.”

He shook his head. “Look, kid, I want out too, okay? Fuck all this… demon shit. But these people have been pretty good to me, and, well—if the world is gonna go to hell, but I can stop it? That’s a pretty good reason to hang around for a while.”

“Uh. No? It’s not? Not when we could be, you know, somewhere else? _Without_ demons and rifts and Anchors or whatever?”

Gilberto frowned, leaning across the table to cover her hand with his. “Okay. I agree it’s a shitty reason. But bear with me here, okay? You and I have been running around for three years. I haven’t stopped looking for you, sis—not once since you let go of my hand that night.”

“Gil—”

“No, let me finish. I think we should give this place a try. I think we should try and—you know. Settle, a little. Just for a while. Just to see how it feels.”

Lyera looked appalled, perhaps justly. “ _Why?”_

Gil hesitated. Because she looked scary thin, because her clothes were in tatters, because she used to be a bright, happy little kid, despite their enslavement, and now there was this look in her eyes that reminded him of a scared animal. “I just… I think it could be good for you. For me, too. I’m kinda tired of running around, you know?”

“I guess.” Lyera chewed on her lower lip. “Yeah. I guess. But, just for a little while, right? Not for too long?”

Gil’s heart clenched. He thought, inexplicably, of Niccolò, whose mouth he had never tasted, whose body he had never felt. “Definitely. Not for too long.”

 


	6. In Which Lyera Makes a Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of child abuse

“I’m sure Nic would understand if you told him you didn’t want to go.”

“Yeah, probably.” Bull threw the saddle over the back of his destrier, patting the beast’s flank when it snorted at him. “But I don’t mind.” He looked back at Dorian and found him watching the Inquisitor with pursed lips. “Hey. Nuh-uh, Dorian. You’re staying here.”

“I could probably persuade him to let me—”

“Him? Yeah. Him you’ve got wrapped around your little finger.” Bull placed a hand on Dorian’s waist and bent down to kiss his forehead. “But I’m a different story, big guy. That Templar got you good, so you’re gonna keep that cute ass here and rest up.”

“I feel fine,” Dorian grumbled. “You underestimate my endurance.”

The Bull rolled his eye. “I know you could handle it, big guy. Just put my mind at ease. Alright? Think of it as you staying here to watch Fidget.”

Dorian looked down at the nug nestled in his arms. It poked its head up and squeaked at him, and he rubbed between its ears with a fond smile. “I suppose Bartholome and I could use some quality time.”

“There you go.” The Bull wrapped both arms around Dorian’s waist and tugged him close, kissing him gently. Dorian stood up on his tiptoes to lean into it, trying to tell Bull through touch what he still lacked the words to say. Bull turned his mouth away before they could get swept away in it, grunting and resting his forehead against Dorian’s, tender fingers curling through the soft hair at the mage’s nape. “Okay. Remember to keep putting salve on the new ink. Eat everyday, sleep at least eight hours, don’t forget to get up and stretch every so often if you’re working in the library—”

“ _Amatus_ ,” Dorian sighed, and Bull grinned before giving him another quick kiss.

“Sorry. Be good.”

“You too. Do be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Bull, you are _never_ careful.”

“Well, no. Okay, _this_ time I’ll be careful.” Bull carded a hand through the mage’s hair, smiling when Dorian whined and batted him off. “Be thinking of you.”

“I’m sure.” Dorian gave him an affectionate push, stepping back and holding Bartholome a little closer while his beloved Tal-Vashoth mounted up. “Bull? Come home safe.”

The Iron Bull grinned down at him. “Sure thing, _kadan_.” He pressed his palm against the fresh tattoo on his chest, and Dorian mirrored him, heart aching as Bull snapped the reins and followed the Inquisitor past Skyhold’s gates.

Bartholome squeaked, ears pricking up, small eyes tracking the horses’ departure, and Dorian patted his head with a sigh.

“I know, I know. I’ll miss him, too. No use sitting around and pining about it, though, Bartholome. Pull yourself together.” He turned to the remainder of the party, still mounting up. “Sera, see if you can’t find us a good bottle of brandy while you’re away.”

“Yeah!” She huffed, pulling herself up into her saddle with no small amount of difficulty, wriggling to get situated. “You and me’ll get good and sloshed, Sparkler!”

He smiled and looked up at Vivienne, already seated prim and proper in her saddle. “Keep an eye on the Iron Bull for me.”

“Of course,” she said loftily, and offered him a pretty smile. “Do get some rest, darling. Nothing will get done if both the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor spend all of their time fretting over you.”

“As I am responsible for inspiring this deep and unwavering affection, I shall do my utmost to put their minds at ease.”

Vivienne blew him a kiss and Sera flipped him the finger before they both cantered down to the gates, leaving just one member of the Inquisitor’s party behind them. Gilberto was just pulling himself up onto his mount when Dorian turned to him, and the thief scowled.

“What do you want, ‘Vint?”

“Nothing beyond your… _considerable_ capabilities, I’m sure.” Dorian shifted Bartholome to the other arm. “Don’t let anything happen to Nic.”

“Am I his keeper now?”

“That lot seems to think that Niccolò is beyond mortal harm—he’s gone from avatar of Andraste to leader of the Inquisition and many seem to think he’s been imbued with powers very much beyond his ken.” Dorian stepped up to the horse and took hold of its reins when Gilberto snorted. “I’m being serious, thief. None of them think of Nic as _human_ anymore. Bull and the others love him, and they’ll protect him as best they can, but sometimes they plain forget that Nic can be hurt. So look after him.”

Gilberto stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Fine. Okay. I’ll keep an eye out. Do something for me, though.”

“If I can.”

The thief sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “There’s an elf girl staying in my room. Make sure she gets enough to eat, make sure no one gives her a hard time. Think you can handle that, Sparkly?”

“It’s Sparkler—I mean, _Dorian_. And yes, I can.”

Gilberto nodded, picking up his reins and turning his horse toward the gate. “Oh. One more thing, ‘Vint.”

Dorian sighed and looked back up at him. “What?”

The thief grinned, baring his teeth, and there was no kindness in it. “If you so much as _speak_ to her, I’ll make you wish that Templar had done you in.” And he snapped his reins, running his horse down to the gate, leaving Dorian to watch his retreating back.

 

* * *

 

Lyera was not happy—not happy at _all_ —about being left behind. It was _bullshit_. She and Gilberto had just found one another, just been reunited, and two days later the stupid ass was riding into the sunset with the guy he wanted to plow to—what? Fight _demons?_ While _she_ stayed in stupid Skyhold with its stupid judgy inhabitants and its cold-ass rooms. Fuck that. She was strong, she was a _mage_ , she could handle darkspawn easily, there was no reason for her to stay.

But Gilberto had always been good at talking her into things. You’re looking a bit peaky, he said. I’ll be back soon, he said. Stay here and scope the place out, figure out whether they’ve got any _really_ good food, he said. So Lyera stayed. Disdainfully. Furiously. But she stayed.

Before the Inquisitor returned, the library had been her favorite haunt in the place. It was quiet, and for the most part, no one bothered her. Another elf worked on the floor below the library, pouring over books or painting extravagant murals on the wall. Lyera hadn’t talked to him yet, but it sort of comforted her to see one of her kin around. One of the researchers who hung around the library was obviously Tranquil; she made Lyera’s hair stand on end, and she avoided the woman whenever she could.

Tranquility and eerie silence aside, though, the library was a good place. There was a great window with a view of Skyhold and the mountains beyond, and someone had piled a generous amount of cushions and blankets for her to curl up in. After Gil bade her farewell—he didn’t want to do it in front of the rest of the party—she padded up to the library and made herself comfortable in her nest, book open on her knees, but her eyes kept straying up to the horizon out the window. Gil was riding off into that snow, off into those towering mountains, to fight _darkspawn_. Her irresponsible big brother, responsible for the world? Wild.

Something tugged on the end of her trousers, and she started and looked down. A nug—just a little thing, probably a baby—sat beneath the table, ears pressed back, huge eyes watching her carefully. Lyera smiled, bending down and offering it a hand, and it scrambled up into her palm without a second thought.

“Hey, little guy. Where’d you come from?”

The nug squeaked and pawed at the blanket in her lap. Lyera was just shifting to let the little thing crawl in with her when she heard brisk footsteps coming up the stairs, and then a man poked his head into her alcove.

“Bartholome, where did you—oh.” He drew up short when he caught sight of Lyera. “Hello. Sorry to intrude, but I don’t suppose you’ve seen a nug?”

“Uh. Yeah. I have.” Lyera lifted the blanket, and the nug lifted its head with an offended squeak. “I think he was cold.”

“Poor thing.” The man smiled and crouched down, patting his knee. “Come on, then, Bartholome. Bull’s room is still nice and warm.”

The nug scrambled down from Lyera’s lap and hopped right up to the newcomer, wriggling into his arms and then disappearing down the front of his robes. The man stood and patted the trembling lump in his clothes, chuckling.

“There we are. Much better, yes?”

“It’s your pet?”

“I suppose. I’ve grown rather fond of him.” The man wrapped an arm around his middle and winced. “ _Ouch_ , Bartholome, no _kicking_ —still tender.” He looked up at Lyera and lifted a brow when she shifted the book in her lap. “May I ask what you’re reading?”

“Um. It’s just a novel.”

“Please tell me it’s not _Hard in Hightown._ ”

Lyera smiled. “No. I have standards.”

“Good.” He gestured around the bookshelves. “How are you enjoying the collection? I’ve been improving upon it as best I can. Unfortunately, few of Skyhold’s residents value high literature, and even less do they value thorough histories.”

“Dunno about any of that. I just like a good story.”

He offered her a smile, and it was a pretty thing that made Lyera’s stomach jump. Damn, but the Inquisition attracted some nice-looking guys. “No shame in that. Good storytelling is the very foundation of any civilization, I believe.” He stepped up to her table and offered her his hand. “Dorian.”

“Lyera.” They shook, and afterward she retreated quickly back into the blankets. Too damn cold for a handshake of polite length. “I knew a Dorian growing up. Well, ‘knew’ might be kinda a strong word.”

“Rather uncommon name in Ferelden, I should think.”

“He was Tevinter.”

Dorian stopped, one hand raised to brush lovingly along the spines of his books, and turned slowly on his heel to look at her with wide eyes. “Oh. _Oh_. Do you—do you know a Gilberto?”

Lyera blinked. “Uh. Yeah. He’s my brother.”

“Oh, Maker’s tit.” Dorian stepped back and raked a hand over his hair. “ _Kaffas_. I’ve been told, very explicitly, not to so much as speak to you.”

“Uh, well, kinda too late for that?” Lyera lowered her feet from the table and stood, pulling her blanket around her shoulders. “Why can’t you talk to me?”

“Gilberto’s orders. Very specific.” Forget speaking, Dorian wasn’t even looking at her, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the ground. “I should—go.”

“What?” She cracked a grin. “You’re not _scared_ of Gil, are you?”

“Not—exactly. He has enough cause to be upset with me, and I’d rather not add fuel to what I’m sure is a considerable fire.”

“What are you talking about? Hey, _wait_ ,” Lyera said, crossing the distance between them when he tried to turn away. She snagged a hand in his leathers. “Hold up a second. What’s—”

He turned to her—slowly—and she froze when she caught sight of the amulet hanging against his chest. The double headed-serpent on a bed of jewels. Lyera took a shaky step back, eyes fixed on him, and the sudden rush of adrenaline and _fear_ in her veins made her breath catch.

“You—you’re _Dorian._  Pavus. Madame’s—” Lyera stopped and swallowed. “Her son.”

“Yes. I am.” Maybe she was crazy, but he looked—he looked _sad_ , wounded, watching her through his lashes with all the caution of a child afraid of a scolding. “It’s been a… a long time, since we last saw one another. I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“You didn’t recognize me, either. To be fair.”

“No. You were a child the last time I saw you.”

Lyera chewed on her lower lip. “Yeah. Last time would have been—when we were playing with the swords.”

The smallest of smiles perked at his mouth. “You remember.”

“Yeah—hard to forget. Your mother—um. You didn’t come around after that.”

“She wouldn’t let me. Apparently even playing with a slave girl had some potential to tarnish our family’s good name.” His smile turned bitter, and he gingerly fingered the amulet around his neck. “I’m glad to see you’re well. And not—not _there_.”

“You too.” Lyera hesitated, tasting the terrible thing left unsaid in the air between them. “She—I thought she really… hurt you. I almost wondered if—”

“She did,” Dorian interrupted, just a touch too quickly. “She did. That time. The only time my father found out. My mother and I didn’t spend a great deal of time together… unsupervised, after that.” He scratched at his hair and shrugged. “It’s in the past. We’ve escaped both of them, now.”

“Yeah. We have.”

Dorian smiled—it seemed natural on his face, and Lyera wondered if he did it often these days. “I should go. If you’d not tell your brother that we spoke, I would appreciate it greatly.”

“Sure thing. Mum’s the word.”

“Thank you. I’ve also received instructions to make sure you’re well tended, so if you have need of anything…”

Lyera indicated the blanket and book. “I’m good. You could let me play with the nug sometime.”

“But of course. Bartholome needs to be socialized.”

“That’s kind of a dumb name for a nug.”

Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes. “He also answers to Fidget, if you prefer.”

Lyera grinned. “Much better.”

“Ugh.”

 

* * *

 

The Iron Bull and Vivienne didn’t play nicely together. Niccolò wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten that—probably because he kept Bull and Dorian together, when he could, because they whined and moped in one another’s absence, and where they went, Sera wanted to go, too. Dorian and Vivienne got along well, even if Vivienne and Sera didn’t, because Dorian was a good buffer between them, but Vivienne and the Iron Bull—yikes. Just yikes. Niccolò glanced over his shoulder and found all three of his companions staring at the ground in sullen silence.

“So,” he said, and Sera glared daggers at him. He went quiet.

“So?” Bull prompted. Niccolò looked back at him and shrugged.

“Weather’s nice.”

“Oh, Maker,” Gilberto muttered, chuckling, and Niccolò scowled at him. The thief had been riding at his side the entire journey, offering up biting little comments every so often. Gilberto flicked an eyebrow upward. “What?”

“That’s not helpful.”

“What?”

“Your… _chortling_.”

Gilberto grinned. “Not my fault this is excruciatingly awkward.”

“Keep giggling, thief, see where it gets you,” Bull growled. Gilberto shut his mouth.

“I do miss Dorian,” Vivienne said airily, sitting prim and proper astride her beautiful brown mare. “He fills these moments with the most pleasant chatter.”

“Is ‘pleasant’ the word?”

“Poncy stupid mage always blathering about something, hey.”

“Nn. Yeah.”

Niccolò grimaced and rolled his eyes skyward. It was going to be a long damn trip.

They camped that night after a hard day’s ride, Skyhold no longer visible in the distance, and they’d descended low enough that the snow had given way to a woefully heavy drizzle of rain. Niccolò insisted, as always, that they sleep in paired tents, a policy he’d instated after a baby quillback had gotten into Doran’s tent and the mage had woken the entire camp with his panicked screeching. Better to have a comrade close-by should anything go… _awry_ , as Niccolò figured it. After all, intruders in the night wouldn’t always be as innocuous as quillbacks sniffing about for food.

He hadn’t, however, expected the pairings to go off as they did. He’d planned on dumping himself into the Bull’s tent, but Sera positively _hissed_ at the suggestion of staying with Vivienne, and darted into Bull’s bedroll before anyone could protest. At that Vivienne sniffed and lifted her chin, declaring pointedly that she would _not_ be sharing with anyone, thank you very much, and dropped the tent flap in Nic’s face when he asked her to reconsider. He tried to weasel in with Bull and Sera, but there was decidedly nowhere close to enough room (how did Dorian manage to squeeze in there?), and he hadn’t thought to bring a fourth tent.

Which left him and Gil.

And the thief was _beaming_ as Niccolò laid out his bedroll, sitting on his own haphazard pile of furs with a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“What are you looking so pleased about?” Niccolò huffed, taking a seat and dragging his day’s rations from his bag. Varric had finally gotten the hang of smoking down the meat they hunted, and this run’s jerky wasn’t half bad. He stripped a piece off with some difficulty.

“Nothing,” Gilberto said, and his smile widened. “So. _Niccolò_.”

“Please, feel free to call me Inquisitor.”

“Nah.” Gilberto laid out on his side, head propped on his fist. “Tell me. What were you doing _before_ you were leading a vaguely religious crusade to retake the world from archdemons and their mad masters?”

“I would call it explicitly religious, and I lived in the Free Marches.”

“Yes, but doing _what?”_

Niccolò frowned at him. “What’s it matter?”

“I’m just curious, is all. Making small talk.” Gilberto pulled an apple from his bag and sank his teeth into it, violet eyes gleaming with something unmistakably _predatory_ as he watched Niccolò shift uncomfortably.

“I—I don’t know. I studied. Wrote. Dabbled in politics.” Niccolò scratched at his hair, shrugging. “I didn’t have a great deal of responsibility. No rush to marry, no rush to produce an heir—he wouldn’t have much to inherit, after all.”

“Grew up poor?”

Niccolò hummed, tilting his head to the side. “Maybe... _poor_ isn’t quite the right word. We grew up… uncertain. There was always food on the table, but we didn’t know if that might change tomorrow. We usually had money for the little necessities, but we always patched our clothes before we bought new ones. We had a farm that did well, but we always wondered what might happen to us if it didn’t.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Just, always… wondering.”

Gilberto lifted an eyebrow. “Sounds hard.”

“Surely no harder than a life of slavery.”

“Mm. Different type of hard.” Gilberto lay back on his bedroll, tilting his head upon the pillow to look at Niccolò, eyes softening just a touch. The angle made the column of his throat look unapologetically masculine and attractive, and Niccolò felt his breath catch. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you.”

“...What?” Niccolò shook himself from leering at Gil’s body and looked the thief in the eye. “For what?”

“Bringing Lyera to me, instead of using her as leverage to keep me around.”

Niccolò raised his eyebrows. “I’m a tad caustic and not overwhelmingly friendly, but I’m not _cruel_ , Gilberto.”

“No.” Gilberto smiled, and it was a gentle thing. Niccolò felt his ears grow hot. “You’re not. But thanks anyway.”

“You’re—welcome.” Niccolò looked away and cleared his throat. “Is she—ah—she’s adjusting, then? To Skyhold?”

Gilberto barked a laugh, folding his arms behind his head, and _oh_ , wasn’t that a pretty sight. Were all elves that lithe and that _beautiful_ , or was it just this man? “She was adjusting well before I found her. She’s got herself a right little nest up in the west tower."

“Really.” Niccolò found his mouth had gone dry. He swallowed with difficulty. “Does she—need anything?”

“Don’t think so.” Gilberto picked at a stray string on his tunic. “I mean… it’ll probably take some time for her to get used to being cared for again. She’s been on her own for a long time.”

“She must be very strong.”

“Understatement, Inquisitor.”

Niccolò sat forward, wrapping his arms around his knees. “She’s a mage, isn’t she.”

“Yeah. She likes ice magic. Always has, ever since she was a kid.” Gilberto chuckled. “One time she froze the madame’s bath water while the old bitch was in the damn tub. I took that beating for her. Regret it to this day.”

“Do you?”

Gilberto rolled his eyes. “Of course not. You think I wanted that bitch laying a hand on my sister? She would have, too— I mean, the marks she left on her own _son_ —”

Niccolò straightened. “Wait. What?”

The thief closed his jaw with a snap. “Uh. Shit.”

“The marks she left on— Dorian’s mother— she hit him?”

“I mean…” Gilberto shifted, chewing on his lower lip, glancing up at Niccolò through his lashes. “I mean, that’s _Tevinter_ , to a certain extent. Kids aren’t things you… love. Especially as you get into society’s upper circles. Servants and slaves do the child-rearing and the tending, and the parents… well. Daddies and mommies swoop in when their little bundles of joy are old enough to start pumping out heirs, and that’s about the extent of warm family relationships.”

“That—that doesn’t excuse…” Nic fell silent, closing his eyes. Between Halward and his mother… _Maker_. Had _anyone_ ever cared for Dorian Pavus? Anyone before—

Oh. Bull. The Iron Bull. The first person to love that poncy Tevinter mage was a head-smashing, axe-wielding Qunari mercenary. Wild, that. Wild. And the thought made Niccolò’s heart clench.

“We should talk about something else,” Gilberto said, and he reached across the space between them to squeeze Niccolò’s arm. “Hey. I don’t want to talk about Tevinter. Bad time for everyone.”

“Yeah.” Niccolò exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, smiling weakly at the thief. Maker, Gil had gorgeous eyes. Just… really, truly gorgeous, especially when they were trained on him with concern that was too genuine and too _real_ for the mere heartbeat they had known one another. “So. Where do you fall on the whole Bartholome-Fidget debate?”

Gil smiled.

 

* * *

 

“It’s _Bartholome_. Obviously. It’s _funner._ ”

“ _Funner_ isn’t a word, my dear, but yes, I’m inclined to agree.”

“It’s a _nug_ , not a damned _emperor_. It’s not a matter of quality, it’s a matter of _appropriateness_ to its _subject_.”

“And Fidget is just _cuter_.”

“Look, Qunari, don’t add arguments that don’t have some logical foundation—”

“What in fuck’s name do you know about _logic_ , corpse thief? Fidget is a cute name for a cute nug, and that’s good enough.”

“Is it, though? The nug is Dorian’s, after all. I think we must consider that a pet’s name is more indicative of its owner’s nature than it is the creature’s itself—”

“Well, you’re wrong, Viv, and Fidget belongs to _both_ of us.”

Niccolò frowned and turned around in his saddle. “Why don’t you just get another nug and name that one Fidget?”

The Bull looked at him in abject shock, mouth open. “ _Boss_. How could I _replace_ Fidget?”

“I’m not saying—”

“And it’s a matter of _principle!_ Bartholome is a stupid name for a nug and that’s—”

“It is _not!”_

“Dammit, Sera—”

Niccolò sighed and turned away, leaving them to their bickering. Fighting over the nug’s name was worlds better than the sullen silence of the previous day.

 

* * *

 

“Th-That’s the r-rift?”

“That’s the rift.” Niccolò pulled his hood a little lower over his eyes. The rain came down in sheets, drenching them from head to toe; their tents already sagged beneath the weight of the deluge. He was grateful, and not for the first time, that Dorian was back in Skyhold; the complaining would have been _awful_.

Gilberto stepped back from the Ocularum, teeth chattering, and shook his head. “Looks mean as hell.”

“It is.”

“We’re gonna close that?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Kick the shit out of some demons though, first,” Sera said brightly. She ran around in her vest and leggings, cloakless, letting the rain soak her all the way through. Her hair stuck flat to her forehead, but she looked breathless and alive. “How’d you like an arrow between the eyes? _Bam!_ How about one in the arse! _Ka-pow!”_

Gilberto shot her a look. “Is that what arrows sound like?”

“Oh, shut up, Sticky.”

“What do you think, Boss?” Bull asked. Water sluiced down his bare chest and shoulders as he walked, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. “We could go after it now.”

Niccolò turned to his team. “Do we need another night’s rest?”

“No,” Vivienne said, shivering beneath not just her cloak, but Bull’s as well (Nic didn’t think he’d ever seen Bull wear the thing himself). “Let’s do what we’ve come to do.”

“Yeah!” Sera said, bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning manically. She paused and frowned a little. “Before I lose my nerve. I fucking _hate_ demons, Inky.”

Niccolò patted her shoulder and looked at Gil. “Well? Are you ready?”

“No,” Gil sighed, rubbing his marked palm. “But I don’t think I ever will be. Might as well get it over with.”

Niccolò turned to Bull and arched an eyebrow. The big Qunari grunted and pulled his axe off his back.

“I want to get back to him, Boss.”

The Inquisitor smiled. “Yeah. I want to go home.” He turned and looked out across the swamp, inhaled deeply. The unique reek of the Fallow Mire burned at the inside of his nose, creeping into the back of his throat. “Let’s do this.”

They crossed the mile between them and the rift on foot; the horses would surely become stuck in the mire, and it would be a long, hard journey back to Skyhold without mounts. Iron Bull took point, dispatching the demons that rose from the murk with easy swings of his axe, only barely inhibited by the muck slurping at his feet. After a mere five minutes, Sera scrambled up onto his shoulders, picking off demons he missed with well-placed arrows. Their efforts left little else for the remainder of the party to do, leaving Gil alone with his racing thoughts as he and Nic brought up the rear.

“Scared?”

“No,” Gil said, without looking at the Inquisitor, teeth grit tight.

“Have you ever fought darkspawn before?”

“No. Seen ‘em before. Always dodged ‘em.”

“Wise.” Niccolò placed a hand on Gilberto’s shoulder and grunted as he wedged his right foot out a particularly deep sink. “Just stay close to me. Don’t fight unless you have to. Let us clear the darkspawn, and then you and I will close the rift.”

“What if it doesn’t work? What if splitting the mark wrecked it? Or what if you _do_ need me?”

“No sense worrying about any of that now,” Nic said quietly, and sighed as he finally got his foot free. His hand tightened on Gil’s shoulder. “We’ll be alright.”

Gilberto wasn’t convinced. “A week ago, I was looting bodies.”

“Yes.”

“And now I’m going to close a rift between our world and the Fade. And I have to fight demons. And some fuck named Corypheus may want me dead for doing so.”

Niccolò chuckled. “Yes. But now, at least, you’re not alone.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian bit down on his wrist to keep from crying out, burying his face into the nearest pillow and inhaling deeply. Oh, Maker, it smelled of Bull. The bed, the blankets, the myriad pillows—most of them frilly and colorful, and Bull would sooner die than admit how much he liked them—all bore the Qunari’s scent, something warm and earthy and unmistakably _Bull_. The smell, the familiarity, made Dorian ache in ways that had nothing to do with his erection throbbing between this thighs, or the stretch of his asshole around his oiled fingers.

“Fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead against the mattress—not pleased, but _frustrated_ , because four thrusting fingers didn’t come close to satisfying him the way Bull’s cock could. He sucked in a breath against the pillow, tried to imagine larger hands on his body, gripping his waist and pulling him back into each deep thrust, wide hips and a nice big cock fucking him into the bed, Bull grunting his delight, teeth marking his lover’s bared shoulders while that wonderfully deep voice crooned his name.

_“Mm, fuck, baby, you like that? Huh? You gonna scream for me? Get loud for me, Dorian, let me hear it… I wanna make you sob for it, kadan…”_

“Bull,” he breathed, rolling his hips just _right_ , at last, clenching his fist down around his aching cock. “ _Bull_ …”

_“Yeah—yeah, Dorian, fuck, that’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Just like that. You look so good on my cock, kadan, so good… like you were made just for me…”_

Oh, he wished he were. He wished he existed just to fill the cracks and crevices of Bull’s body, wished he could melt into his big lover and become one with his flesh. He wished Bull had been his first and his only, wished he could have spent his entire life dozing off in those warm arms and waking to those slow kisses. He wished Bull had been the only one to ever take him, fuck him, pin him to the bed, bite marks into his skin, spread his legs open, roll him onto his front, his back, however Bull wanted him, Dorian would offer himself happily, happily…

“ _Amatus_ ,” he moaned, and came with a high keening sound that didn’t _seem_ like it could come from his body, spilling messily all over his fingers while his ass clenched down around weight and girth that didn’t quite satisfy. He brushed a come-smeared thumb across his mouth, closing his eyes as he rode out his high, imagining the hands that would gently cradle his body to Bull’s wide chest, the mouth that would coax kisses from his lips, a smile beneath his caressing tongue, _Kadan_ exchanged on a breath before Bull’s mouth covered his…

He lazed around in bed for nearly an hour afterward, pouting into Bull’s pillows. He practiced firebreathing, rolling onto his back and letting a thin stream of fire raise into the air before cutting it off, smoke curling between his teeth. Bull hadn’t seen it yet; Dorian didn’t want to show him until they had the time and energy to properly enjoy one another afterward. And, if he was honest with himself, he worried a little that he wouldn’t be able to do it under pressure.

When he could no longer justify his laziness, Dorian shuffled from the bed and bathed in their tub—albeit briefly, because luxuriating in the hot bath was no longer quite as fun without Bull there to pamper him. Just the thought of his big lover rubbing soap and oil into his bare skin was enough to make his cock twitch with sleepy interest, and Dorian hurriedly turned his thoughts to something else. Venatori—Blackwall—Blackwall _naked_ —Varric’s romance novels…

But thinking about one of their number led him to think of another, and eventually he got back to Bull.

It was a very unhappy Dorian who headed up to the library an hour later, finally groomed to his standards, Bartholome tucked snugly into his robes, feeling physically sated but emotionally restless. It wasn’t just that Bull wasn’t around—he could handle Bull not being around. At least, he was still telling himself that. He just didn’t like the idea of Bull out there _fighting_ , risking himself, being reckless, without Dorian there to keep him in check. Something awful could happen—he could lose the one person he really loved, and he wouldn’t even—

Dorian paused halfway up the stairs; a research aid bumped into his back and stepped around him, muttering. Loved. He had just let that word slip through his internal monologue. Fuck, and he’d been so careful up until now… scowling, he finished his trip to the second floor.

His usual perch in the library was occupied again by the elf girl he was forbidden to see. In that moment, he didn’t care what Gilberto had told him—Bull was gone, Nic was gone, even Sera was gone, and Dorian was _lonely_.

Lyera looked up when he sat down and offered a cautious smile. “Hi.”

“Hello.” He sat down across from her and opened the neck of his robes, letting Bartholome hop onto the table. The girl squealed her delight and the nug hopped into her lap. Dorian smiled, picking up the heavy grimoire he’d been pouring over for the last several weeks and opening it to his marked page. “Enjoying your reading, I hope.”

“Sorta. I’m kinda just bored.” Lyera shrugged, shifting in her seat, pulling a blanket over her lap to cover Bartholome. “I mean, now that I know where Gil is, I… it feels wrong, him running around out there while I…”

Dorian nodded, a little surprised. “I know what you mean. I agree it is frustrating, to say the least.”

Lyera closed her book and pushed it aside, propping her elbows on the table. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

“You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

Dorian lifted a brow. “I am.”

“What kinda magic can you use?”

“All kinds,” he said, lifting his chin. “I’m an accomplished necromancer, extremely competent in all the elemental and spirit magics, I have a working knowledge of healing magic, and I helped develop a magic capable of stopping time itself.”

Lyera snorted. “You’re a confident one.”

“I’m the only one I can trust to not let me down.” He settled back in his seat, watching her with a smile. “You want me to teach you, yes?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she lowered her gaze. “I mean, well—I wasn’t allowed, you know. In Tevinter.”

Dorian nodded. “Indeed. My mother never used you as _incaensor_ —ah. Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

“No, it’s not, I…” He sat forward and kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. “I apologize. I am… still trying to _overcome_ much of what I was taught in Tevinter.”

“Yeah. I get that.” Lyera fell silent for a moment, petting Bartholome’s head. “So you can use all kinds of magic. But what do you _like_?”

Dorian considered. “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it.”

“So if I told you that you could only use one type of magic for the rest of your life, you wouldn’t know what to choose?”

“Well, that entirely depends on how I’m spending the rest of my life. Necromancy is part of my heritage, it’s undoubtedly one of the more useful magics, and let’s be honest, the ability to stop time is—”

“Hey,” Lyera interrupted, holding up a finger. “You can only do one more spell, and then you can’t ever use magic again. What kind of magic do you use?”

Dorian didn’t need to think about it all that hard—he thought of Bull, of Bull’s exuberance when a dragon had attacked them all the very first time, of _Taarsidath-an halsaam_ , of how deeply and hotly Bull had kissed him literally the moment they were back in their tent—

“Fire,” he said, and smiled. “I’d use fire. Tell me, Lyera, what it is you want to learn."

"Ice," she said at once. "I'm already good at it, but I want to get better."

"Mm. Vivienne may be a better teacher. It's my weakest element by far."

"Yeah, but—" Lyera abruptly shut her mouth, looking down at the nug in her lap. "Yeah. Okay."

Dorian watched her, perplexed, and slow realization dawned on him when she glanced up at him and then looked back down. "Well. I mean. They do say that teaching is the best way to learn. Perhaps—perhaps we can get better together?"

Lyera looked up at him again, a faint blush spread across her nose. "You're not even supposed to be talking to me."

Dorian grinned, propping his chin on his fist. "Well, no—but I absolutely _detest_ doing as I'm told. When shall we start?"

* * *

 

Dodging darkspawn thus far had been a good plan, because as it turned out, demons _sucked_.

“Watch it there, thief!” Bull roared, and Gilberto found himself airborne, thrown carelessly over the Qunari’s shoulder while Bull swung his battleaxe into a Greater Terror, and its shriek made Gil’s hair stand on end.

He scrambled up out of the mud, panting, wrenching his dagger out of a sodden patch of grass and cutting the throat of a corpse that threw itself at him. “I _am_! Don’t bloody throw me!”

Bull guffawed and threw himself back into the melee. Gil wiped his wet hair off his brow, squinting around for the others. Vivienne prowled along the perimeter, well out of harm’s way, her ice spells winging past Gil’s ears; Sera weaved in and out of the battle, cloaked, flanking demons that Bull missed with his sweeping axe. All three of them in their element, a team, working effortlessly off of one another’s strengths and weaknesses, and Gil had to admit, they were a sight to behold.

But Nic. Fucking _Nic_.

Gil expected mages to fight at a distance, but Nic was in the _thick_ of things, his staff a blur of motion, lightning crackling through the air with each wide sweep, each focused jab. A purple arc crossed from one hand to the other, illuminating his face—eyes narrowed, teeth bared, a spatter of blood across his brow, hair on-end from the static. Bull and Sera stayed close to him, removing immediate threats, giving him space to push closer to the rift.

“Second wave!” Bull roared, cutting down a corpse even as the rift _hummed_ , a huge fiery heart hanging in the sky. A disembodied voice was _laughing_ , and Gilberto spun on his heel, trying to locate the source.

“Pride demon,” Nic said grimly, and shifted his staff to his other hand. “Get ready. Sera, Gil, cloak—Vivienne, anything else that comes through—that’s what you focus on. Bull—you’re with me.”

“Damn straight, Boss,” the Qunari said, a manic grin splitting his face, and Gil shivered.

The Pride demon was the biggest, meanest fucking thing he’d ever seen in his life. It had too many fucking _eyes_ , for one thing, and too many spines, and big horns that looked good for goring unsuspecting people but not much else, and Gil took one look at its claws and decided that he was not going near the thing.

The Iron Bull, on the other hand, _charged_ it with a roar that might have been more of an exultant yell, swinging his axe in a long arc and taking a slice out of the beast’s calf. It turned on him, mouth gaping to reveal wicked teeth, and lunged forward, swinging its claws. The Qunari was more spry than he looked; he rolled out its way, and it snarled when Nic’s lightning danced up along its spine.

Somewhere behind him, Sera screamed, and Gilberto tore his gaze away from the Pride demon and turned. A Terror had her pinned to the ground, its jaws yawning open over her face while she struggled and shouted, trying to get her bow angled up under its throat.

“Fuck—shite—fucking demon _shite_ —”

Gilberto moved, closing the distance in four swift steps, and plunged a dagger into the demon’s side, grunting with exertion when it writhed and tried to pull away. He pushed the blade in deeper, panting, angled it—the Terror surged back, and the dagger bit through flesh, tearing a long, gaping wound in the beast’s side. It shrieked and leapt straight through the ground ( _straight_ through the damn _ground),_ leaving Gilberto panting, clutching his bloodied dagger.

“Thanks, Sticky,” Sera said, scrambling upright. “Now help us with—”

Bull roared, and Gil covered his ears with a wince, turning back to the battle at hand. The Pride demon looked weakened, but it was far from felled—as he watched, it took a wide swing at Bull, who only barely managed to dodge out of the way before its claws ripped through the earth where he’d been standing only moments before. Its flank was exposed, Nic drew in close to send a bolt of lightning straight up into its side, if he was close enough he’d probably cook its lungs—

The Pride demon turned—fast, too fast for something that badly hurt—and one of its massive hands hit Nic in the chest. Gilberto heard the man’s _whumpf_ as the air was knocked out his lungs, heard the cracking of his ribs, and then the Inquisitor was airborne, coming to a crashing halt some twenty paces away, where he lay still.

“ _Nic!_ ” Bull shouted, and then snarled when he had to fling his axe upward to keep from getting a claw to the face. He was already bleeding, a tip broken off one of his mighty horns, his bad knee threatening to give out. “Vivienne—!”

But Viv was boxed in—she had two different Terrors closing on her, forcing her to retreat, and already Sera was hurrying toward her, eyes wide, glancing back at the Bull even as she ran.

“Fuck,” Gilberto heard himself say, because Nic was just _lying_ there, and a Terror was heading toward him, its fangs exposed. “ _Fuck_.” Felt himself running, the wet ground sucking on his boots, and then his daggers were out, and he hit the thing running, plunging his blade into its throat and taking it to the ground. “ _Fuck!”_

The Terror writhed—he’d stabbed it clean through, and the tip of his blade buried into the grass, pinning it—and Gilberto left it to its death throes, scrambling through the muck to get to Nic. He rolled the Inquisitor onto his back—maybe a bad move, he’d think in hindsight, a broken rib could have punctured his lungs—before leaning down to hover his ear over Nic’s mouth and nose.

“Fuck,” he whispered, Bull’s roaring and the demon’s laughter fading into the distance, so much white noise. “Fuck. Come on. Come on.”

There—a hiss more than a breath, something like a wheeze. Nic’s mouth and nose were pouring blood, and his lungs rattled, but he was _breathing_.

“Sticky, hurry!” Sera shouted, sprinting past him, and he lifted his head in time to see Vivienne dispatch the last Terror just as Bull’s knee decided it had had enough, sending the huge warrior toppling to the ground.

“Be back,” Gil said—knowing very well Nic probably couldn’t hear him—and ran at the demon.

He would look back on that battle and not know how they survived it—any of them. Bull on the ground, Niccolò on the ground—but Sera a whirl of flashing blades, Vivienne coming like a winter storm, and Gil had never felt faster, or stronger, than he did fighting beside them. The world dissolved into sprays of the demon’s blood—he heard its laughter turn to screams, felt his blades bite into flesh and sink into muscle and organs—he _heard_ the rift wailing, felt the Fade tugging at them, trying to reclaim its creation—

The demon fell. It _collapsed_ , its huge body sprawling in the muck so suddenly that Bull had to scramble backward to avoid being crushed. Vivienne crouched at his side, but he waved her off, pointing a shaking hand at their fallen Inquisitor.

“Go—Nic—”

Gilberto sheathed his blades over his back. Sera was already at Nic’s side, leaning over him, gently palpating his ribs. Gilberto joined her as if in a dream, dropping to his knees in the mire and resting a hand on Nic’s shoulder.

“I’m here, darling.” Vivienne, her voice soft and low in his ear, and she gently drew him back. Her healing magic looked different than her battle magic—her fingertips glowed soft and golden, dribbling sparks across Nic’s broken body when she reached for him.

“Hey, Gil.” A massive hand settled on his shoulder, and Gilberto tipped his head back to see the Iron Bull standing over him, veritably dripping blood, looking shaky. “The rift.”

“I can’t…”

“You gotta try. Come on.”

In spite of his wounds, Bull helped Gil to his feet, supporting him, and together they stumbled over to the rift. It pulsed weakly, a dying heart, and Gil felt his marked hand throb more painfully with every step he took.

“What do I…?”

“Nic just—lifts his hand. Exposes the mark.” Bull abruptly dropped, sitting on his ass in the muck, hissing as he gripped his wounded knee. “Sorry, I—”

Gil shook his head, pulling off his glove and unwrapping the bandages around his hand. The mark glowed that sickly green, little wisps of—of—whatever the fuck it was, Fade smoke—reaching for the gaping wound in the sky. Shaking, he lifted his hand and uncurled his fingers.

The pull was instantaneous—something _tugged_ on him, tugged on his muscle and bone and every vein that led into his fingertips, and he nearly doubled over with the pain, steadying his wrist with his other hand while the rift reached for him, _into_ him, its wicked essence bleeding into the mark on his palm.

“Fuck,” he heard Bull say, and felt strong hands tugging on him, but the rift _had_ him, he couldn’t move, couldn’t pull away—

Another hand appeared in his fuzzy field of vision—ungloved, the fingers spread wide, the Anchor glowing. Niccolò leaned into him, breathing harshly, and Gilberto wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him upright. The rift screamed—he could hear it, hear it in a way he was sure the others couldn’t—and began to shrink, the sky pushing in on it, holding the wounded edges together and knitting them back up. It wailed—and then it was gone, with a last sad pulse that rattled Gil’s very bones, and utter silence descended.

Niccolò collapsed, head dropping against Gil’s chest, and the thief staggered under his weight. His knees gave out, and they fell to the ground. Gil kept Nic clutched into him, struggling to catch his breath—under the stink of muck and blood, Nic’s hair—still snapping with static— smelled very faintly of embrium and pine.

“Alright, Sticky?”

Sera’s grinning face blurred into view, and he felt Nic’s weight leave him. Bull straightened, even as Vivienne’s magic danced over his wounded knee, and shifted the Inquisitor in his arms.

“Yeah,” the Qunari said, nudging a foot into Gil’s side. “You’re alright, aren’t you, thief?”

“Yeah,” Gilberto echoed. He closed his eyes, felt unconsciousness tugging on him, and welcomed it. “Yeah. I’m good.”

 

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. In Which Gil Gives Nic a Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for that chapter title. I'm not sorry, but I do apologize.

The rain let up—a gentle drizzle instead of a torrential downpour. Cool, not cold. Gil lay in the mud and the grime and felt the patter of rain on his face. He felt heavy, numb. He tasted the sweet tang of elfroot on his tongue, wetness on his lips. Pleasant, almost.

At least, it was, until Sera slapped him across the face.

“ _Ow!_ Mother _fucker!_ ”

“Wake up, Sticky!”

“I’m _awake_ , you pointy-eared idiot!” He rolled onto his side, working his jaw and groaning when it popped loudly. “The _fuck_ was that for?!”

“Just makin’ sure you’re not demon kibble,” she said brightly, standing and nudging him with the toe of her boot. “Viv wants help with Inky.”

It took him several moments to connect ‘Inky’ to ‘Nic,’ and he sat up with a groan, drawing his marked hand against his stomach when it throbbed painfully. Vivienne and the Iron Bull both crouched no more than two feet away, Nic prone between them. Bull looked worse for wear; he was still bleeding freely from myriad little wounds that decorated his chest and shoulders, and he had his bad leg stretched out in the mud, the other drawn so he could prop his arm upon his knee. 

Gilberto crawled over to them, breathing catching high and tight in his chest at the sight of Nic—too pale, even for a Free Marcher, the rain washing blood from his mouth and nose, leaving pink rivulets on his cheeks. Gil reached for him unthinkingly, pushed sodden hair from his brow before withdrawing his hand hurriedly. Thankfully, no one commented.

“What’s—I mean—is he—”

“Out of mage juice,” the Bull intoned, nodding toward Vivienne. Her head was bowed, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly. Both of her hands clutched one of Nic’s. “He’s too deep in the Fade.”

“That—sounds bad?”

“It is,” Bull said, and lowered one massive hand to clasp Niccolò’s shoulder. “Hard to pull mages back out once they’re in. Fuck. This is why I don’t mess around with magic.”

Sera, crouching behind Gil, mumbled a vehement agreement.

“Iron Bull,” Vivienne said suddenly, and they all jumped. “Please let me see your dragon’s tooth.”

“Uh. Why?”

“I need Dorian. He will be easier to reach if I have a talisman.”

“Oh. Sure.” Bull fumbled briefly with the leather cord that kept it tethered around his neck, nodding his thanks when Sera hopped up and untied it for him. He lowered it into Vivienne’s hand as delicately as if it were made of glass (rather than of a fang that had once nearly split his femur in two).

“Thank you, dear one.” She held the tooth in one hand, Nic’s in the other, and closed her eyes once more.

“Sparkler’s in Skyhold,” Sera said in a loud whisper. “Is Viv a nutter now too?”

“She’ll reach him through the Fade, kiddo,” Bull explained, not unkindly. “Mage things, remember?”

Gilberto looked up at him, nudging the Qunari when he remembered that no one could bloody well see without an eye. “Isn’t there something we can do?”

“Nah,” Bull said, nudging him back—much too hard, and Gil had to throw out his aching hand to keep himself from sprawling sideways into the muck. “We sit and let Viv do her thing.”

“Fuck all,” Sera muttered, and got to her feet, proceeding to head from ash pile to ash pile in search of loot.

Knees beginning to ache, Gil sat back in the mud, inching a little closer to the fallen Inquisitor and mopping blood from Nic’s face. The other man didn’t so much as stir, and Gil thought maybe he imagined the flutter of his eyelids. It was eerie, the stillness of his body. Gil had only ever known one other mage—Lyera, of course—and she had never used her magic in excess, certainly not to the point where she exhausted her mana.

“Hey,” Bull said quietly, and the elbow he poked into Gil’s side was much gentler this time. “Good job back there. With the rift.” 

Gil shrugged. “Not too bad for my first time.”

“You know what they say. Always remember your first. Although I hooked the tavern up with some of the good stuff from Par Vollen if you’d rather forget.”

 Gilberto snorted and arched an eyebrow. “Are you inviting me out for a drink?”

"Sure. You’ve earned it. Just the one. Trial basis.”

 Gil tried to pretend that didn’t please him as much as it did.

 They passed a full five minutes in silence, listening to the patter of the rain, to Sera’s uttered oaths and occasional whoops of excitement when she uncovered something exciting. Nic began to shiver, eyelids fluttering, and his foot gave a twitch when Vivienne leaned down to whisper in his ear.

 “Dorian has him,” she said softly, running a hand over Niccolò’s hair before she sat up once more. Her eyes opened, finally, and she turned to Iron Bull. “He wants you to know that Bartholome is well.”

 The Bull grunted, smiling a little ruefully. “Thanks. Nic’s gonna be okay then? I don’t want to have to put down a demon-possessed Inquisitor.”

 “Give him a moment. Dorian will coax him back out of the Fade long enough for us to get him to shelter. Once he’s rested, he’ll be able to resist the demons.”

“Uh. Demon _possessed_?” Gilberto looked up at the Bull, eyebrows raised. “Mages can get _possessed_ by demons?”

“Yeah.” Bull blinked down at him. “You didn’t know that, Sticky? When they’re sleeping, or when they’re sick, or hurt… anytime their guard is down, gives a demon a chance to slip into their skin. Shit, sometimes Dorian even puts wards up when we’re—uh—you know.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Fuck is right.”

“Hey!” Sera called from some hundred feet away, waving a hand over her head. “Is Inky gonna be one of them evil snicky-britches?”

“Nope,” Bull shouted back, and she gave him two thumbs-up before returning to trying to yank a stubborn elfroot out of the ground.

 

* * *

 

Margherita loved to bake. She detested just about everything else being a woman of her class and status entailed, but she did love baking. Her cakes were incomparable; their little brother Totto had put on a bit of a tummy when he was sixteen, the year she really got enthusiastic about her new craft. Niccolò could smell them—as much as one could smell anything in the Fade—could almost taste the flaky crust of her pies on his tongue.

“Well. At least it smells nice. More than can be said for the Fallow Mire.”

Niccolò, spread-eagle in the grass, tipped his head back and smiled upside-down at the man leaning on the tree behind him. “Hello, Dorian.”

His friend pushed off the tree and sauntered over to him, sitting down beside him and resting his head against his staff. “So. This is a lovely retreat you have here, but the others need you to wake up.”

“Let me stay a little longer.”

 “They’re sitting in the rain.”

“Well, I’m lying in the grass.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and laid back without further ado, pillowing his head on his hands with a long, low sigh. “Where are we?” 

“My parents’ farm. Southern Free Marches.” Niccolò stretched an arm over his head, indicating the little house sitting further up the knoll. “My sister is baking.”

“The eldest?”

“My eldest sister is dead. Primavera. She couldn’t bake to save her life—but she could cook. How do you figure?”

“Well, I can suck a man’s brains out through his cock, but I can’t eat ass to save _my_ life.”

Niccolò laughed, slinging an arm over his eyes. “Those are—not even comparable, really.” 

“Now, Bull, on the other hand—” 

“ _Ew,_ Dorian. I _really_ am going to be just fine without you uttering another word.”

Dorian smiled and tapped his staff against Nic’s stomach. “It’s time to go. You can return later, when you’re well again.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Overdrew your mana, from what Vivienne tells me. A rookie’s mistake. The moment you’re back on your feet, Bull and our good Commander Rutherford will have you in the training yard, putting you through your paces.”

“Hey—Dorian.” Niccolò reached out, snagging a hand on his friend’s robes before his fellow mage could get to his feet. “I—think I like him.”

Dorian flicked an eyebrow upward, stroking a hand over his moustache. “Oh? Who, might I ask?”

“Gilberto.”

“ _Oh_.” Dorian pillowed his chin in his palm, brows furrowing. “Well. That’s a rather...sticky situation.”

“Pun intended?” 

“Don’t insult me, I’d never lower myself to such low-brow humor as a _pun_. How odd. I’ve never known you to be the romantic sort, Niccolò.”

“I’m not. That’s exactly the problem.” Nic sighed and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “What should I do?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“Ah.” Dorian shifted at that, a blush creeping across his nose. “Well, you’re something of a bore and I rather detest you.”

Niccolò grinned, poking him in the ribs. “Are they okay? The others.”

“Bull took a few hits, I believe.” Dorian turned his head, looking down at the Inquisitor—yes, yes, alright, his _best friend_ — and bit his lower lip. “Do look after him. Bring him home safe.”

“You know I will.”

“Yes, I do, but it bears repeating.” Dorian got to his feet, extending a hand. “Come on, up you get. We’ll talk about your—ugh— _infatuation_ upon your return to Skyhold.”

Niccolò sighed, tilted his head to look wistfully up at the house. He missed them—Margherita, Totto, his little nephew, his boyhood companions. His family. He looked up and Dorian offered him a crooked smile. His Free Marches family, he amended to himself, and gripped his companion’s hand.

He had a family in Ferelden to look after, now. Margherita and her cakes would just have to wait.

 

* * *

Niccolò jerked awake, gasping, so suddenly that Gilberto nearly shit himself. Vivienne leaned down at once, cradling the Inquisitor’s face in her hands and peering into his eyes—and all the while, the Iron Bull kept one titanic hand on his axe.

“It’s him,” Vivienne said, and Bull relaxed visibly, the tension draining from his shoulders. Gilberto shuddered to think what might have happened had Vivienne said anything else. “Niccolò? Darling, can you hear me?”

“…Viv?”

 “Yes, love, it’s me.” She accepted the lyrium potion Bull had dug out of his pack and motioned to Gil, who scooted forward through the muck to help the Inquisitor sit up. Nic leaned into him, practically boneless, and Gil stiffened at the feel of having the other man tucked under his arm. “Gilberto? Please have him drink. I’m going to fetch Sera and her potions.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Gil took the tiny vial, peering at the blue liquid sloshing around within, before tapping Nic’s shoulder. “Bottoms up, your Inquisitorialness.”

“Don’t,” Nic muttered, cracking open an eye to glare up at him, and Gilberto grinned. 

“No stupid nicknames for a month if you down this in one go.”

“Haven’t even known you a month.” But Niccolò let Gil guide the vial to his mouth and drank obediently, and to his credit, Gil only fixated on the flex of his throat when he swallowed for the first three gulps (the two times after didn’t even count, really, a _glance_ was not _fixating_ ). Nic coughed at the end and licked his lips to get the last of it, and that was _some_ kind of torture. “Fuck. Is it closed?”

“—Uh?” 

Iron Bull snorted—Gilberto jumped, having completely forgotten he was even there—and poked the thief in the shoulder. “The rift.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yeah, we closed it. It’s closed.” Gilberto looked down at his marked hand and sighed. “It took both of us, but it’s closed.”

“…Shit.” Nic dropped his head back against Gil’s shoulder. “Shit. I’m so sorry, Gilberto.”

 “Don’t. I mean—this isn’t on you. It is what it is.”

“Who put it there?” Bull asked suddenly, his mouth twisting into a hard frown.

Niccolò blinked at him wearily. “What? The rift?”

“No, Boss. The trap rune that split up your mark. Who left it for us?”

Nic shrugged. “Templars? The mountains were crawling with them.”

 “Sure,” Bull said, but he didn’t look convinced. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, shielding his eye from the rain with a raised hand and squinting across the mire. “Ah. There’s Sera and Viv. You two gonna be okay if I go meet them halfway? Leg’s killing me and Sera’s got the potions." 

“We’ll be here,” Nic said. Bull grunted and clapped him on the shoulder before trudging off through the muck, calling for their wayward companions.

Which left Gilberto seated in the middle of the mire with the man to whom he was awkwardly attracted practically lying in his lap. He swallowed and tried his very hardest not to make note of the way Nic’s body fit against his, nor of how his skin tingled where Nic panted against his neck.

“You okay?” he asked, running a hand up and down Nic’s arm before catching himself.

“Mm. Just—tired.”

“You can, uh—pass out, if you need to. I’m sure Bull can carry you back to camp.”

Niccolò chuckled, a tremor passing through him. “You’re not offering?”

“Elf,” Gilberto reminded him. “Brute physical strength isn’t exactly our forte.”

“So humble,” Nic said, but his voice trembled. “Sorry, I…”

“Nn. Don’t be.” Gilberto glanced up—Bull was on the other side of the swamp now, letting Vivienne run hands over his wounds while Sera had unpacked half of her bag in search of potions. Satisfied that they were distracted, Gil turned back and pulled Nic a little closer—just close enough that he could press his mouth into the younger man’s wet hair. “Rest, okay? I’ve got you.”

He needn’t have spoken—Niccolò was out, slumbering against his shoulder. Gilberto hesitated—he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be feeding the thing crawling around inside his chest—but he took Nic’s marked hand in his own, felt the heat and pulse of the blighted magic between their palms. He kissed Nic’s hair again, inhaled, smelled sandalwood beneath the stink of the mud. He kept his face buried in those raven locks until he heard the others splashing toward him once more.

The walk back to camp seemed to drag on for hours. The muck had gotten thicker with the rain. Iron Bull carried Nic against his chest, bridal-style, chuckling at Nic’s weak protests before the Inquisitor fell asleep again. Sera begged Gilberto for a piggyback ride, which he refused until a corpse buried in the mud leaned up and grabbed her leg, scaring her shitless; after that, it seemed too cruel to let her keep walking where “creepy shite-fuckin’ crawlies” could get at her. He pretended he didn’t notice Vivienne’s smile when he knelt down to let Sera scramble onto his back.

The sight of a burning campfire was so welcome that Gilberto almost cried with relief. Sera slid down from his shoulders the moment they were close enough to hear its merry crackling and tore off up the hill, disappearing into her tent with a loud groan. Gilberto heard a faint _thud_ when she presumably hit her bedroll. 

“Hey.” Iron Bull nudged Gil—rather, shifted his arms until Nic’s shoulder bounced into the thief’s—and indicated the Inquisitor. “Will you look after him? Gonna get a healer on my knee, or I’ll never hear the end of it when I get home.”

“Uh. Sure.”

Bull grunted and lowered Niccolò to his feet, waiting until Gilberto got an arm around his waist and pulled Nic’s around his neck before stepping back. “Thanks, Sticky. Make sure he gets some _sleep_ , okay?”

 Gilberto glared at him but held his tongue. Iron Bull headed off, chuckling, while Gil helped Niccolò limp into his tent. He dropped the Inquisitor on the bedroll as gently as he could—easier said than done when Nic weighed more than he did—and stood panting with his hands on his knees.

“…Ow,” Niccolò protested after a moment, lifting his head and scowling at the thief. “Thanks for that.” He lifted a hand and conjured a tiny little wisp that hovered in midair, lending them a bit of light, then dropped back to the bedroll with a groan.

“ _Elf_ ,” Gilberto reminded him. “We should, uh—get you undressed.”

Nic lifted his head again and arched an imperious eyebrow.

“No, I mean—dammit, that _wasn’t_ a proposition, you’re just _soaked_. Pretty sure I’d have a few people mildly irritated with me if I let you die of a chill.”

“Being wet is not actually a cause of illness,” Niccolò sighed, fumbling with the laces of his coat. “And I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself.”

Gilberto lifted a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“ _Yes_.” But nearly ten seconds of clumsy pawing later, Niccolò dropped his hands by his sides and sighed, defeated. “We are never speaking of this.”

“Sure,” Gilberto snorted, kneeling down and working the laces open with ease. The banter was good—kept his mind off the fact that he was sitting in a dark tent undressing the Inquisitor. “You feeling okay?”

“Drained. My ribs hurt a bit.”

“That would be from the bitch-slap that demon gave you.”

“I’m well aware, thank you,” Niccolò replied curtly, and Gilberto chuckled. “Gilberto?” 

“Mm?” Gilberto finished with the laces and forced himself not to draw out the motion of opening Niccolò’s coat, tried very hard to ignore the little ache that was starting up between his legs.

“I really am sorry. About needing your mark to close the rifts.”

“Ah. Well. We knew it might go down that way. Sit up for a second?”

Niccolò tried to push himself up and failed, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs. Gilberto helped him up, pushing hIs coat off his shoulders as quickly as possible before easing the Inquisitor back down again, wishing he could silence the chorus of _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ that had started up in the back of his head. Because _fuck_ was Niccolò a pretty thing, all firm, hard angles were it counted, just enough softness in his belly to be cute. He bore a few scars, most of them still raw and shiny. New. Gilberto doubted he’d earned many of those lounging around in a chalet in the Free Marches.

“I’m still sorry,” Niccolò murmured, and Gilberto had to shake himself before his staring became more obvious.

“It’s—I mean—I’ll deal.”

“You don’t have to. Not alone, that is." 

Gilberto shrugged. His cheeks felt hot. He leaned to the other side of the bedroll and pulled off Nic’s muddied boots, swallowing thickly. The trousers had to come off. He knew that, but—oh fuck, the trousers had to come off.

He looked back up, his pulse racing, and was relieved to find that Niccolò had already unsnapped his pants. Thank the Maker, Gilberto didn’t think he could do _that_ part without the stirring interest between his legs popping up to say hello. He gripped Niccolò’s waistband and gave it a tug, but of course the pants snagged against the bedroll.

“Um—lift your hips?”

Niccolò hesitated. “Look away.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s _embarrassing_.”

“Couldn’t be more embarrassing than having that Qunari lug you back to camp like a freshly deflowered bride.”

“Yes, it could,” Niccolò snapped, cheeks turning pink. Was Gilberto imagining things, or did his lips look just a little swollen? Just—just from blushing, surely, all the blood in his face. “Just—I don’t know, look at the wisp.”

Gilberto snorted and looked up, watching the wisp flutter back and forth overhead. “It’s kinda pretty.”

“They always are.”

Niccolò’s hips lifted, his pants sliding easily off his ass and down his thighs, and Gilberto hurriedly thought of distinctly unattractive people—unattractive _old_ people, with the pox, with sagging bits and wrinkles—naked, but even that didn’t stop the ache from intensifying in his crotch.

“Damn,” Niccolò muttered, and Gilberto pulled his hands into his lap so the human could kick his sodden trousers away. “Soaked through to the smallclothes.”

Gilberto sighed theatrically. “A good samaritan’s work is never done.”

“Ha, ha,” Niccolò retorted. “Pass me that blanket, would you?”

The thief did, opening the blanket up and tossing it over Nic’s shivering form, and it hadn’t quite settled when the temptation was too much and he glanced down and—oh, come on, Niccolò _couldn’t_ be hard, he had to be imagining it—nevermind that his smallclothes were indeed _soaked_ and unless he had a staff grip tucked in there, they were clinging to _something_ —

“Ugh.” Niccolò made a face, wriggling beneath the blanket, and Gilberto’s keen ears honed in on the distinct sound of wet fabric sloughed off of skin.

“You good?”

“Feels gross, that’s all.” Niccolò tossed his wet smallclothes out of the bedroll, into the corner of the tent, and Gilberto, to his credit, did not look at them. “Fuck, that’s better. Is there another blanket over there, or—”

Gilberto had stopped listening. Very much stopped listening. Because the blanket was thin as hell and there was definitely something at attention between Nic’s legs.

“—Fuck,” Niccolò said again, hissed it between his teeth, and hurriedly made to roll onto his side. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t,” Gilberto said hoarsely, and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t—apologize.”

Nic stopped, surveying him cautiously, and after one breathless moment, rolled over onto his back again. Gilberto swallowed thickly, gaze flickering between Niccolò’s furiously red face and the probably similarly inflamed cock tenting his blanket.

“Impressive.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“If you want,” Gilberto said, before he’d even thought about it, and the blush on Niccolò’s cheeks only darkened. “Can I…?”

“...If you must.”

Gilberto frowned. “Not going on that.”

Niccolò bit his lower lip. “You—yes. You can. I would—like you to.”

Oh, sweet fuck. Gilberto released a shaky exhale and extended a hand, palm hovering and fingers shaking for a moment before he lowered his arm and—touched— _fuck, fuck, fuck—_ touched the Inquisitor through the blanket, flattened his palm along a hard, hot length. Niccolò’s breath hitched—his hips shifted, pressing his cock against his belly. Gilberto ran his hand upward, until his fingers brushed the head, and felt wetness—too warm to be from the mire.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and Niccolò grunted, fists tightening in the blanket. “You’re, uh—big.”

“It suffices,” Niccolò said, his voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks were so red it was sort of a wonder there was enough blood in his body to allow an erection.

“I bet.” Gilberto ran his hand back down until his palm fit neatly along the curve at the base. Niccolò shivered beneath him—fucking _trembled_ —and shifted his knees open a little more. Gilberto wanted to see—fuck, he wanted more than to see, he wanted to lick the precome off Nic’s belly and then tongue it into Nic’s mouth, make the Inquisitor moan at the debauchery—but he didn’t ask. To be here, touching Nic in the dark, seemed too good to be true already, and he didn’t dare push his luck.

For five minutes—for five glorious, Maker-sent minutes—Gilberto touched. He ran his hand up and down the full length of Nic's firm cock, he squeezed it, rubbed it, stroked fingertips over where he figured the slit would be and bit down a moan himself when he felt the warm pulse of precome through the blanket. It unnerved him to hear Nic so quiet, but hell, he was silent himself—didn’t know what to say, what he should say. Too afraid of ruining the breathless, vulnerable thing between them.

“I’m going to come,” Niccolò said, his voice a ragged whisper, and Gilberto shuddered.

 “Go ahead.” 

“As if you could stop me,” the Inquisitor replied, but the taunt didn’t have much bite to it when he was panting like that. His hips arched up, hungry, and Gilberto palmed over the head of his cock and rubbed hard enough that he knew it would almost hurt, but Nic’s lips parted and his lower back bowed. He came with a grunt—which was kind of disappointing, because in Gil’s head he had pictured a real show, with lots of writhing and crying out and plaintive little whimpers of his name—but he could only ask for so much in return for a handjob through a thin old blanket. The blanket didn’t hide the warmth of the come on Nic’s belly, and Gilberto suppressed the wild urge to lean down and lick at the wet spot.

“Good?” he asked, regretting immediately that he’d spoken into the heavy space between them. “I, uh, I guess I’ll—”

 Niccolò sat up, shaking a little, and Gilberto’s hair stood on end when a hand rested on his thigh. “Don’t you want…? 

“Nah. Nah, I’m good. I’m. Uh. Yeah, nah. I mean, just nah. Thanks, though.”

Niccolò’s stupidly attractive mouth twitched into a frown. “Gilberto…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gilberto said, getting hurriedly to his feet. He rubbed his nose, hating how awkward he sounded—hated _more_ that he could smell Nic on his hand. His _marked_ hand. Just to add insult to injury. “I’m good. So, uh—g’night. 

“Gilberto,” Niccolò said again, reaching for him, but the thief dodged him and backed toward the tent entrance.

“I don’t want to make this into a thing,” he said, prying the flap open behind him. “I mean, any kind of—thing—like—with reciprocity, or—um—I’m gonna go. Okay? I mean, I’m glad we—uh—I’m gonna go.”

Niccolò tilted his head, still frowning at him. “You can stay.”

 “Um. No. I can’t. It’s not you, it’s not because of—um.” Gilberto waved a hand, grinding his teeth. “It’s nothing. Okay? I’ll—see you in the morning.”

“Did I do something?” Niccolò asked—in that same quiet, cautious tone, and Gilberto _hated_ it. “Should I not have—”

“I said it’s not you,” Gilberto broke in, too close to snapping, but he couldn’t _take_ that slightly wounded look on Niccolò’s handsome face. _Fuck you, you fucker, this was supposed to be no big deal_. “See you tomorrow. Get some rest, Inquisitor.”

“I will,” Niccolò said, sounding miserable, and Gilberto backed out of the tent before he could be tempted to offer up more idiotic babbling.

He high-tailed it back toward the other tents—and realized, much too late, that he and Niccolò had been sharing. He stopped in the middle of camp, cursing under his breath, and turned on his heel, heading for the tent nearest the fire. Bull and Sera were already within, sleeping soundly—Bull mumbled something about “Tama” and kicked a foot while Gilberto stepped over him. He pushed Sera a little closer to the Qunari and dumped himself down on the edge of her bedroll, rolling over to put his back to them and wrapping his arms tightly around himself. It would have been nice to get out of his bloodied, muddied, rain-soaked clothes, but all he wanted to do was sleep.

 Sera yawned and stretched; her fist bumped his back. “Mm. Heya, Sticky. You have a fight with Inky?”

 “No. Go back to sleep.”

 “Not enough room in here…”

 “Just go to sleep, pipsqueak.”

 “Mm.” The Iron Bull grunted and flung an arm out, hand thudding heavily against Gil’s back. “Hey, Dorian, stoppit…I’m…oh, you like that?...C’mon baby, take it off, lemme see…”

“ _Ewww_ ,” Sera groaned, giggling wildly.

Gilberto pulled his shirt up over his head and pressed his palms to his ears until all he could hear was his pulse, Sera’s giggles and Bull’s sleep-talking muffled. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stop thinking, feeling, tried to pretend he didn’t have a throbbing erection cradled between his drawn-up thighs, that he didn’t have the smell of Niccolò’s spend clinging to his palm, tried not to think about the way those swollen pink lips had parted in a quiet groan, how easy it would have been to bend down and kiss him, grasp that hand and guide it between his legs and let Nic return the favor, he'd wanted it, they both did—

“So good for me,” Bull mumbled, and his hand swatted the back of Gilberto’s head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the "oh hey you've got an erection lemme take care of that for you" trope, okay, so sue me


	8. In Which Sera and the Bull Go Streaking

Dorian’s cozy corner in the library overlooked the training yard where the Chargers could be found on most any given day, whacking away at one another with shields and blunted swords. Which was all well and good when Bull was present, because it gave Dorian an all-day unobstructed view of the mercenary in his element, tall and broad and strong and laughing with his boys. In Bull’s absence, however, Dorian found that view from his window to be the loneliest in all of Skyhold. He was pining, and he knew it, and he hated himself for it, but he just couldn’t sit in the library anymore when he knew he might look up and _not_ see Bull tackling Cremisius or teasing Dalish about her skills as an “archer.” 

Dorian just hated it—hated damn near everything—when Bull wasn’t there.

So he left the library to its quiet for the day, and headed down to the garden instead, a book tucked under one arm and a snoozing Bartholome tucked in the other (he’d left the nug unattended yesterday and the little thing had shat all over his bed). He got a few cheery hellos as he ambled through the greenery; Morrigan treated him to a rare smile and dip of her head. One of the Chargers—one of the new ones, Grumble, or Gimble, or something—had snuck away from practice to kiss a cute dwarf girl in a secluded corner, but he broke away from her briefly to give Dorian a wave and a whistle. Dorian waved back with the arm that wasn’t full of baby nug and hurried onward to give them privacy.

“Motherfucking _dammit_!”

Dorian stopped, one foot raised, and lifted a brow. When another string of curses that would have had Josie turning pink sounded from the nearest shrub, he stepped around it and peered into the greenery.

Lyera crouched in the dirt, both hands wrapped around an elfroot, straining back on her heels to try and pry it free. It stretched, waxy stem squealing beneath her palms, but didn’t come free; as Dorian watched, she lost her grip and landed on her ass with a snarl.

“Fucking _plant!_ ”

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he said, startling her. “What in the name of Andraste are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” she snapped, getting to her feet and swatting dirt from her pants. “I’m trying to yank a stupid elfroot out of the stupid ground.”

Dorian lifted an imperious brow. “Why?”

“ _Because_ ,” she huffed, scowling up at him, “that really pretty politician lady—”

“Josephine?”

“—said I should earn my keep while I was here, so I came out to the garden so she woudn’t—you know—see me not earning my keep—and then that naggy old Chantry lady—”

“Mother Giselle.”

“—told me that there was all this yardwork to do, and I thought, well, I’ve been stealing shit for long enough that maybe I _should_ try to help out, so now—” She broke off with a huff and pointed at the elfroot. “I think it’s a mutant.”

Dorian laughed and handed her both book and nug, crouching down on knee—glad he was in his leathers and not his nice robes—and pressed his fingertips into the dirt near the elfroot’s base. He focused for a moment, searching—and then curled his fingers. The elfroot shifted, and Lyera gaped when its roots curled up through the ground, pulling free of the dirt that anchored them. The plant fell to its side, quite freed, and Dorian picked it up between two delicate fingertips before standing and turning toward her.

“Milady,” he said, presenting the elfroot as if it were a fine flower, and grinned when she took it, eyes wide and wondering.

 “How did you…?”

 “Magic. Spirit magic, to be specific. Ironic, isn’t it—that the branch of magic most closely connected to the Fade also most closely connects us to the physical world. Plants are rife with spirit magic. You must only know how to _listen_ for it.”

 “Listen?” Lyera tucked the elfroot into her bag before hugging Bartholome to her chest.

 “I don’t mean that literally. Not quite. I suppose _sense_ would be the more accurate term, but…” He shrugged. “Solas might be better at explaining this than I. Perhaps if I’d paid any attention whatsoever to my classwork when I was a boy…”

 Lyera laughed, and he found himself more than a pleased to hear it. Smiling, he peered around the shrubs and found Mother Giselle a short way across the courtyard, her back turned.

 “Come on.”

 “Come on what?”

 Dorian looked back at her and grinned. “Let’s do something _interesting_.”

 

* * *

“I mean, I think it looks good.”

“You’ve a good sense of aesthetic.”

Lyera shot him a grin. “Thanks.”

“But of course.” He passed her the bag of candied nuts. They sat high above the gardens, swinging their legs over the edge of the battlements. Below, Mother Giselle scurried back and forth across the courtyard, trying to allay the fears of startled gardeners who had found huge stretches of herbs and trees turned completely to ice.

“I used to do stuff like this with Gil,” Lyera said somewhat wistfully, petting Bartholome’s head when he poked it out of her shirt. “Turn random shit to ice, or freeze the soup—once I froze Madame’s favorite cat—”

“That was you?” Dorian broke in, laughing. “I took the blame for that one!”

Lyera jerked as if she’d been slapped and looked at him, eyes wide. Dorian balked, laughter dying quickly, and held up a hand.

“No, I mean—she didn’t—that time, she didn’t—” He broke off with a sigh, running a hand over his hair. “Look, it wasn’t—she didn’t often—hit me. I mean—I was my father’s heir first and her son second.”

“I didn’t—I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he said hurriedly, waving a hand. “No—please. You more than deserved an outlet, and that cat—that cat was a _demon_ , it had it coming.”

Lyera lowered her eyes, smoothing a hand over Bartholome’s head. “Gil hates you.”

“I—yes. I’m aware.”

“He shouldn’t. You suffered just as much under your mother as we did.”

“Probably not. At least I had my will.”

“We had will,” she snapped, and then reigned herself in quickly. “We couldn’t help our circumstances, but Gil and I were… we _are_ … tough. You know? We had to be. You did too, I bet.” She looked sideways at him. “Is that—was your mom the reason you left?”

He shook his head. “No. My leaving had everything to do with my father. My mother and I have been estranged since…oh, I don’t know. Since I was sixteen or so. I’ve rather lost track of the years. My father and I were close, though, right up until he…” Dorian paused and shrugged. “Until he compelled me to leave.”

The silence that hung between them hurt. Lyera pulled Bartholome out of her shirt and set the nug down in Dorian’s lap. He smiled and patted her arm.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Yeah. Sure. Um.” She clasped her hands in her lap, swinging her legs, and grinned when a gardener slipped on a patch of ice, landing hard on his arse. “Tell me about the people here.” 

“Like who?”

“Like—I dunno. The Inquisitor? Haven’t met him yet.”

“Oh. Nic?” Dorian set Bartholome on his shoulder and fed him a candied nut—and only wondered after  the fact if nugs ought to eat candied nuts. “Nic is—I don’t know. Something of an enigma, actually. He loves the Inquisition, he hates Corypheus. He’s an excellent mage. And—er. He smiles all the time.”

“What?”

“I mean, not as in—not smiling as in ‘ha-ha.’ Smiling like he knows something others don’t. Like he’s always scheming and always feeling particularly pleased with himself.” Dorian rolled his eyes, but he was smiling himself. “He’s brilliant and he knows it. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Seems to be the norm around here,” Lyera said dryly. Dorian winked. “What was he before he was the Inquisitor?”

Dorian barked a laugh. “Well, that’s the great question, isn’t it? I’ve asked him about a dozen times. He’s from a noble family. He _dabbled_ in politics. He _dabbled_ in writing. By all indications it seems that he was just _dabbling_ in life until he came to Ferelden.”

“Huh.” Lyera heaved a sigh, taking a handful of candied nuts and popping them into her mouth. She chewed for several long moments before speaking again. “I think Gil’s sweet on him.”

Dorian lifted his brows. _I think I like him._ “Oh? Is that so?”

“Yeah. Denies it, of course, but… I know my brother. He’s all hung up. Might not even know it yet.”

Dorian thought for a moment, thoughts awhirl. _You’re my best friend_. “Lyera. Tell me something.”

“Yeah?”

He looked at her and grinned, every bit as manic as he’d been right before they froze half the garden. Lyera found she rather liked that look.

“Any chance you enjoy shameless meddling?”

 

* * *

Gilberto woke alone in the tent. He didn’t rise at once, listening to the sounds of their camp—Sera cackling, Vivienne’s lofty alto chastising the Iron Bull about how poorly he’d tended his wounds, Bull demurring with grunts of “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am.”

He didn’t hear Nic.

With a sigh, he clambered to his feet, wincing when his back popped in several places, and stepped out of the tent. A light mist hung over camp, and grey clouds obscured the sunshine.

“Hey!” Seated on a log beside a merrily crackling fire, Bull waved him over. “Morning, Sticky.”

Gilberto joined him a little cautiously—this was the man, after all, who had laid him out on the floor the night they met—and accepted the bowl of porridge Sera pressed into his hands. “Morning. I’m not the last up, am I?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d let you sleep.”

“Not that we got any!” Sera said, jabbing her spoon at Bull. “You talk!”

“What?”

“You talked about _Dorian_ all night.” Sera scrunched up her nose and lowered her voice in an imitation of Bull so bad that Gil snorted into his porridge. “Ooh, yeah, Sparkler, take my great big stupid prick, you like that big sausage, huh?”

Bull burst into laughter, slapping a hand against his knee. “Aw, _shit._ Sorry, guys.”

“I daresay Sera should be the one apologizing,” Vivienne said—Gilberto jumped—and seated herself beside Bull. “That isn’t in the slightest what they sound like in bed together.”

“Ew, Viv, why d’you know that?”

“Because they see fit to cavort together all over Skyhold. They’re nearly impossible to miss.”

Bull grinned. “We’re working on getting Dorian out of his comfort zone.”

“Oh? Then, can the terrace right below my balcony be considered well within the bounds of said comfort zone? I do enjoy reading without the noise you two make.”

“Er. Yeah. Yes, ma’am.”

“You sure know how to ruin a guy’s appetite,” Gilberto grumbled, putting down his bowl and getting to his feet. “I’m going to go wash.”

“Watch out for the icks,” Sera said. Gil looked at Bull and raised an eyebrow.

“Corpses.”

“Ah. Got it, thanks.”

It would be just his luck—really—that when he got down to the little pool of water that was more or less removed from the rest of the bog, Niccolò would already be there. Gilberto stopped and hovered some ten paces short, breath catching. The Inquisitor was in just his trousers, ankle-deep in the pool, busy leaning over to dump water over his hair, giving Gil a full view of his ass and thighs, clenched up with the cold. 

Niccolò straightened and shivered, rubbing his fingertips across his scalp, shoulders flexing—and Gilberto caught the faint white gleam of scars, a latticework of lines across his shoulderblades and mid-back. Neat, precise. Gilberto’s throat went dry.

Niccolò—as clean as one could get, having bathed in bog water—turned and froze, catching sight of Gilberto standing and staring at him. “Oh. Um—”

“Where?”

Nic blinked, and took a step back when Gilberto approached him with fast strides. “I beg your—”

“Where’d you get them?” Gil stopped just short of touching distance, hands opening and closing at his sides. “Your—those scars.”

Niccolò stiffened. “That’s not—”

“Someone—who hurt you?”

“That’s not any of your _business_ , Gilberto.” Nic shoved the bucket he’d been using into Gil’s hands, cheeks flushed. “And if you must know, it was a long time ago. Before I became Inquisitor.”

Gilberto swallowed twice, working his throat open. It had gotten almost unbearably tight. “Nic—slaves have scars like that. In Tevinter. Some of them.”

Niccolò snorted. “Well. I can assure you, I’ve never been enslaved.”

“It’s not funny.”

Niccolò considered him for a moment, and then his face softened. “No. It’s not. And I wasn’t laughing. Thank you for your concern, Gilberto. It is… appreciated, but unneeded.” He placed a hand on Gil’s arm and squeezed. “Watch out for undead.”

He stepped around the thief, made to leave—and Gil reached for him, grabbed his arm. Nic paused, turned, and didn’t put up a fight when Gilberto tugged on him, pulled him in close.

“I—” The elf hesitated, dropping his gaze. “I’m sorry. About last night. Not about the—um. I’m sorry about leaving like I did.”

“…Ah.” A finger slid under his chin, pushed upward, and Gilberto swallowed as he looked up. Niccolò’s mouth twitched toward a smile. “If there is a next time, you are more than welcome to stay. I would have liked to return the favor.”

“Wasn’t a favor,” Gil said somewhat thickly. “Wanted to.”

“And would you like to again?” 

Gilberto stepped toward him, parted his lips—and frowned when Nic leaned away. “I—”

 “Sorry.” Niccolò cut him off with a wince, cupping a hand along Gil’s jaw. “Last night being the obvious exception, I—try not to mix business and pleasure. I’d rather not do anything…intimate…standing in a bog.” 

Gil arched one eyebrow. “Isn’t it a bit late for that?’

Nic quirked a smile. “I’d sooner let a stranger give me a handjob through a blanket than give me a kiss.”

“You’re a weird one.”

“So I’ve been told.” Niccolò stepped back, pulling his hand back from Gil’s face, and the thief found himself aching at the loss almost at once. “You’re welcome back to our tent tonight. _Not_ for a repeat performance,” he added, smiling when Gil’s face fell. “You can try to guess what happened to my back, though. If such a game might please you.”

“Okay,” Gilberto said, throat still constricted past the point of pain. “Nic?”

“Mm?”

“When can I kiss you?”

Niccolò smiled, the bridge of his nose turning pink. “I’m not sure. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and find out. Won’t we?”

And, still smiling, he turned away and pulled his shirt back over his head as he walked back toward camp, leaving Gilberto staring stupidly after him, still standing in the bog.

 

* * *

“Hurts, so sharp, again, and again, hot blood, it _hurts_ —it wasn’t me, I didn’t do it.” Cole shivered and drew his knees to his chest, pressing his eyes closed. “Hurts, hurts, _hurts_ …”

“Cole?” A hand landed on his shoulder, and the boy jerked, lifting his head to see Dorian frowning down at him. “Are you alright?”

“…Yes.”

“Who were you channeling, Cole? Is someone hurt?”

“It—” Cole paused, assessing. It happened almost infrequently, lately—when he heard pain now, it had to be intense, and anymore he only heard the voices of the Inquisition’s inner circle. People close to his own heart. “It is an old hurt. No one is bleeding now." 

“Alright.” Dorian’s gaze softened, but his hand tightened. “Can you tell me who it was?”

Cole shook his head. “He doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” Another shake of that silly hat. Dorian sighed and loosened his grip, patting Cole’s shoulder. “Very well. I wonder if you’d watch Bartholome for me for a bit?” He opened his collar and let the nug hop out of his robes. “Josephine seems to have some urgent need of me.”

“Oh.” Cole beamed, petting the nug’s head. “Hello, Fidget.”

“…Oh, _damn_ it, Cole,” Dorian sighed, and reluctantly patted the top of the boy’s ridiculous hat before continuing on his way, leaving Cole seated by the main hall fireplace with a happy nug in his lap.

He found Josephine seated at her desk outside the war room, with the other advisors and Cassandra gathered around her, all looking equal measures perplexed and irked.

“There,” Cullen sighed, beckoning Dorian with one hand. “Now that Lord Pavus has joined us, Josephine, what _is_ the matter?”

“It’s just—well—” Josephine sat at her desk, wringing her hands, and Dorian lifted his eyebrows as he closed the distance between them. He hadn’t ever seen the ambassador so obviously flustered. “It’s really very—oh, it’s so embarrassing, I just—they contacted me right after Adamant, and there was just so much to _do_ —”

“Josie,” Leliana said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Tell us what’s happened.”

“It’s—” Josephine inhaled, held her breath, let it out in a rush. “Six months ago I was contacted by a magister who asked if she and some sympathetic colleagues could pay visit to us in Skyhold and I told her yes, of course, we would be honored to receive a delegation from Tevinter who saw the worthiness of our cause, and we made plans for the delegation to come but then I _completely_ forgot about it until, well, I’ve just had a runner bring word, and—”

Cullen’s mouth had dropped open, and Cassandra looked about ready to unleash the disgusted noise to outdo them all. Eyes wide, Leliana tightened her grip on her friend.

“Josie. Oh, Maker. How long?”

“I’m sorry!” Josephine wailed, pressing her face into her hands. “I really am, I don’t understand how I could be so _foolish_ as to _forget_ —”

“How long, Lady Montilyet?” Dorian asked loudly, in what he hoped were measured tones, but he thought he sounded a little reedy.

Josephine sighed and lifted her head, looking at him miserably. “Four days.”

Cullen groaned and dumped his face into his hands, mumbling unintelligibly, and Cassandra pinched the bridge of her nose. Leliana sighed, defeated, and straightened.

“Well. That’s all there is to it, then. We shall make ready as best we can, and _hope_ the Inquisitor doesn’t linger too long in the Fallow Mire.”

“Who, Nic?” Dorian asked weakly. “Niccolò ‘let’s find every veilfire rune from here to the Hissing Wastes’ Trevelyan? Linger? _Never_.”

“Dorian,” Josephine said, lower lip trembling. “Please, you must help me—I’ve never hosted a delegation from Tevinter, I have no idea what—how to—do we even have enough _room_? Cullen, how many spare rooms do we have?!”

“I have no idea,” he mumbled, face still hidden. “Do we—do we need more guards? How many are coming?”

“I don’t know! I have no idea! I’m sure Maeveris told me when we were first in contact, but—”

“Wait,” Dorian interjected, heart leaping into his throat. “Maeveris—Tilani?”

“Yes, she—she is an acquaintance of yours, yes?”

Something warm settled into the pit of Dorian’s stomach, and he surprised himself with a laugh. “Yeah. Yes. Mae is a dear friend.” His _only_ dear friend from his homeland, in fact, the only person in all of Tevinter he’d be happy to see striding up to Skyhold’s gates. Well. He’d have welcomed the sight of Felix, too, but if ‘Vints starting rising from the dead, they all had bigger problems. Oh, wait—that _was_ their chief problem these days, wasn’t it? Fucking ‘Vints, Dorian thought, and it unnerved him just how much Bull was rubbing off on him (rubbing off, hah!—oh, damn, he _really_ needed to stop spending so much time with that man). “Worry not, Josephine. I’ll help. Maeveris is easy to please.”

A lie, of course—if anyone had him beat in his love of creature comforts and vain appearances, it was Magister Maeveris Tilani, but Josephine smiled at him, eyes watering, and he blew out a low sigh when she turned to talk with Leliana.

“Are you alright?” Cullen intoned, just tilting his head enough that maybe their spymaster wouldn’t ‘accidentally’ overhear.

“Quite,” Dorian said, and thought he sounded anything but. “A little taken aback. I’d just gotten used to the idea of not having to see my kinsmen outside the battlefield.”

“If you’d rather not be present…”

“No. No, Skyhold is my home. I’m happy to meet any number of magisters here on my own turf.” He gave Cullen’s (nice, broad) shoulder a somewhat awkward—but noticeably appreciative—pat. “Do try not to worry too much, Commander. You’ll lose your hair. And that _would_ be a shame.”

 

* * *

Once the Fallow Mire was behind them, they hitched a ride with a caravan, and Gilberto thought he’d never been so happy to collapse into a rickety old wagon. It was covered, at least, tented a good foot over even Bull’s head, and inside was warm and dry, a blessed change from the bog. They didn’t talk much a good half day, dozing on one another’s shoulders, waking every so often to drink from their shared waterskins and to tear chunks out of the jerky Varric had made.

Gilberto stirred sometime in the late afternoon, rubbing the heel of one hand against his eyes. Bull was out, leaned up against the side of the wagon and snoring loudly, with Sera splayed out in his lap like she didn’t have a bone in her body. Gil became aware of a weight on his shoulder and glanced down to see Niccolò dozing soundly at his side, head resting against the thief’s arm. 

Gil was thirsty, and had to take a piss at the same time, and his arm was numb, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Instead he scooched down until his head could rest against Nic’s, and cautiously—with something like real, earnest fear beating behind his ribs—angled his jaw so he could press a soft kiss to Nic’s hair. He smelled wonderful, the stink from the bog all washed away, hair light and fluffy under Gil’s nose. 

“Got it bad, huh, Sticky?”

Gilberto started—stilled at the last moment to keep from jostling Nic—and glared at the qunari. “Mind your own business.”

The Iron Bull just grinned, stretching widely before lacing his hands behind his head. “Yeah, yeah. Never mind that that’s the second time you’ve done that.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Bull snorted, scratching at his broad chest. His tattoo was starting to scab and peel, and it itched like hell. “Saw you in the mire. Horns up, Sticky. Kiss him for real one of these days.”

“Not like I haven’t tried,” Gil grumbled, before he could stop himself, and felt his face turn hot when Bull quirked an eyebrow. “I. Uh. This morning. I tried. He leaned away.”

“Ah. Well, Nic’s an odd one.” Bull shrugged one massive shoulder. “Just be good to him, look after him a little. I think it’s been a while since anyone took care of him.”

“He doesn’t seem the type to let me.”

“Guys like Nic put up walls for a reason,” the Tal-Vashoth said sagely, though Gil suspected that Nic wasn’t the man on his mind. “You might just have to figure him out a little.”

“Mm.” Gil kissed the Inquisitor’s hair again, ignoring Bull’s chuckle—now that the qunari knew, Gil supposed he didn’t really give a fuck whether he saw. “Hey, Bull? Do you—do you know what happened to his back?”

Bull frowned at that, adjusting Sera when she started to drool on his chest. That honor was generally reserved for one Dorian Pavus. “What happened to—Nic’s back? Dunno. What’s wrong with it?”

Gilberto swallowed. “Never mind.”

And Bull—smart, caring guy that he was—let it drop.

They camped that night in an open field, the mire far enough behind them that Gilberto couldn’t see it even when he squinted, though their reeking clothes were a fair reminder. Sera and Bull volunteered for laundry duty in the nearby stream, and Gil was right in thinking that it would just turn into skinny dipping and loud shouting and splashing.

“Does that girl often just drop her trousers for no apparent reason?” he asked, covering his eyes with one hand when Sera went streaking through camp, waving Bull’s ridiculous pants over her head and whooping while he shouted after her. 

“It’s a relatively frequent occurrence, yes,” Niccolò replied, nonplussed, not even looking up from his stew when Bull charged between their tents after her, bare as the day he was born.

Gilberto stared at the huge man’s departing ass and shook his head. “And the fate of the world rests in their capable hands.”

“They are capable,” Niccolò said, smiling up at him, “just—free spirited.”

“I guess that’s one word for it.”

Nic chuckled and patted the spot beside him, and Gilberto sat, skin prickling at the other man’s proximity. He stretched his legs, holding hands and feet out toward the fire, pausing to flex his marked palm.

“I am sorry,” Niccolò said, suddenly quiet, and Gil looked at him. “About needing you to close the rifts. I’m sorry you got mixed up in all this.”

“I mean, it was kind of my fault.”

“No. It’s mine. I was too quick to make an example of you. What was one more looter in the grand scheme of things? If I had just let you go on your merry way—I mean, Bull had already beaten your face in—”

“You blame yourself for everything?” Gilberto interrupted, nudging his shoulder into Nic’s and grinning at the scowl he earned in return. “I mean it. You’re so quick to assume all the fault lies with you. Sometimes shit just happens, Nic. And it’s no one’s fault. It just—is.”

“Where did you pick up that little pearl of wisdom? Dead body?”

Gilberto laughed. “Got it in one. Nah. Lyera told me that. When we were kids. Don’t ask me where she got it from. Maybe it was just one of those—you know how sometimes kids just _know_ shit?”

Niccolò paused—and thought of his little nephew. Of Gio, who had been so thrilled by the puppy they father bought him when he was six, who had looked so somber and so sad when it died, mauled by a steer, and when Niccolò went to comfort him, Giovanni had just sighed and said “It’s alright. Everything has to die, in the end.”

“Yes,” Niccolò said, nodding. “I do know.”

“And then they grow up and lose it all. Or maybe the world sucks it right out of them. I dunno.” Gilberto picked up a stick and poked at the logs on the fire. In the distance, Sera was hooting, and Bull was laughing. “You have any kids?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Is it possible?”

“I suppose.” There had been a few women, before all this, before the Inquisition, but he hadn’t had one lover for an extended period of time in—shit. Years. He’d been a very young man the last time he thought he might be in love. “And you?” 

“Doubt it. I mean, unless that one girl—nah. I was sixteen, and I saw her about six months afterward. No belly on her.” Gilberto shrugged. “Haven’t been with a woman since.” He suddenly stiffened, and turned to Niccolò with furrowed brows. “Hang on. Do you even—”

“I like men,” Niccolò said, snorting. “As much as I like women. I’ve never had a preference.”

“That kind of thing flies here in Ferelden?”

“Yes. I know the same can’t be said of Tevinter.”

Gilberto shrugged, shucking his boots to get his feet closer to the fire. They were close now, shoulders touching. Niccolò could have reached out and taken his hand. He didn’t. “I don’t think Tevinters care so much who you fuck as whether you might get a kid out of it. I mean, I’m pretty sure their Chantry teaches that it’s holy, between men and women, that anything other than that is…deviant? I think that’s the word. An aberration.” 

Niccolò looked away, fixing his gaze on the fire, and felt his heart twist when Bull howled with laughter over Sera’s loud swearing. Bull, who had known the damage that “Vinty shit” could do from the very start. Who had let himself fall in love anyway, _knowing_ that maybe Tevinter had left wounds too deep to heal, that maybe he’d wind up hurt for it. Who had seen their dear friend through that storm. “You hate him, don’t you.”

“Who?”

“Dorian.”

Gilberto stiffened. “I don’t—look. Niccolò. I left behind some bad shit when I ran from Tevinter. I didn’t expect it to follow me here.” 

“That’s…fair.” Niccolò sighed and raked a hand through his hair, leaving his fringe sticking straight up. Gilberto wanted to kiss it. “Maybe give him a chance, though? Dorian is a good man.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” And then Gilberto’s hand settled on his wrist, thumb stroking softly along the side of his hand. “I don’t really want to talk about other guys.”

Niccolò snorted. “Oh, no?”

“Nah. Tell me more about you.”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Come on. The great and revered Inquisitor doesn’t have anything to say about himself?”

Nic smiled at him, an easy, weightless thing. “I’m just a man who fell out of a hole in the sky.”

Gilberto huffed and nudged him with his shoulder. Niccolò nudged him back. “Alright. You have a family? Parents?” 

“My parents both died some time ago. I have an older sister and a younger brother. And a nephew.”

“Are you close to them? Do they know what you’re up to? The whole saving the world thing?”

“We were close, before I left the Free Marches. I haven’t—heard from them. Since all this… I’ve tried to write. I’ve yet to hear back from either of them.” Niccolò shrugged, clasping his hands between his knees. “I’m sure they’re well, I just… miss them.”

“What are they like?”

“Oh, well, you know. Margherita is—” Nic paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and there was something wary about the glance he threw Gilberto’s way. “Tell me something?”

“I’d rather hear about you.”

 “Yes, you’ve made that clear. But tell me whether this is a seduction or—something else.”

 Gilberto lifted a brow. “Are you asking if I’m courting you?”

“Well—yes.”

The elf shrugged, looking down at their hands, still resting lightly one atop the other. “Is it alright that I’m not sure yet? I mean—yeah, I want to take you to bed. I can’t say for sure that I want that to be the end of it, though.”

“Hm.” Niccolò quirked his head to the side, studying him closely, and smiled a little when Gilberto’s cheeks pinked. “What’s wrong?”

“You look—I dunno. You look at people too directly. Or something. Is that a Free Marcher thing?”

“I daresay it’s a politician thing. Or a writer thing. Keen powers of observation are needed by both.” Niccolò leaned in, his smile widening. “You have freckles.”

“I’m aware,” Gil snapped, cheeks darkening further, and Niccolò tilted away from him with a laugh.

“You want to go back to our tent?”

“Do I get to touch you again?”

“I should think not.” Niccolò grinned as he got to his feet. “I’m just tired. Come on if you’re coming, Volpe.”

Gilberto stood and then faltered, glancing toward the streambed where Bull and Sera were (apparently) doing the laundry. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just need to—clear some air.”

Niccolò smiled—he really did have a killer smile, somewhere between sweet and knowing—and turned away, heading for their tent. Gil set off for the stream, Bull and Sera’s shouted laughter floating to him from across camp. They were mercifully clothed when he found them—Bull in just his trousers, dragon’s tooth dark against his chest, Sera in just a long tunic—splashing one another in between scrambled attempts to keep bits of laundry from floating downstream.

“Hey, Sticky,” Bull said, straightening and plucking a sock off one of his horns. “Sorry about the full display earlier.”

“Nah. Looked fun.” Gilberto stopped by the water’s edge and tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Um. Can I talk to you for a second?”

Sera wolf-whistled, and Bull shooed her away with a wave of his hand and a grin. She scooped up a handful of what looked to be Nic’s clothes and scurried off to hang them from a tree.

“What’s up?” Bull asked, tone light, but Gilberto recognized the wariness in him, no matter how well the qunari had been trained to hide it. Thieves and spies weren’t so unalike.

“I wanted to apologize. For real. For trying to nick that dragon’s tooth.”

“Oh.” The Bull blinked, taken aback. “Well. No harm done, in the end. You didn’t know.” 

“But I did.” Gil paused, took a deep breath, let it out. “I knew it was a qunari thing. I knew it meant something special. If I was any kind of decent man, I’d have left it where it was. I knew it would be like stealing a wedding ring off a dead man and I did it anyway. So. I’m sorry.”

Bull considered him carefully, head canted, still holding the sock he’d taken off his horns. After what seemed far too long to be comfortable—for Gil, at least—he nodded, very slowly, very deliberately.

“Pretty sure I said we were square after I knocked you across the bar.”

“Yeah, and that was fair. I just—you’re a good guy. I didn’t want you thinking I didn’t… that I didn’t regret what I’d done.”

“Huh. Well. Thanks, Sticky.” Bull quirked his lopsided grin. “Takes guts to dredge this kind of stuff up once it’s settled. You’re a pretty decent guy yourself.”

“Not really.”

“Well, maybe you just don’t see it yet. But, hey, you’re trying.”

“Yeah.” Gil resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder, where the Inquisitor would be shucking his boots in their tent while a pretty fire wisp danced overhead. “I am.”

“Oy!” Sera called from her perch on her improvised clothesline, swinging her legs back and forth. “You two done snogging yet?”

“Nah,” Bull called back, looping a massive arm around Gil’s shoulders and pulling him in to press a wet, sloppy kiss to the top of his head. “We’re just getting started, aren’t we, Sticky?”

“ _Ugh!_ Bull! Gross!”

Sera swung down from her tree, cackling. “I’m telling Dorian!”

Gilberto—half-pleased, half-disgusted—returned to his tent, shaking his head with a smile when Bull and Sera dissolved into hysterical giggles behind him. He ducked through the tent flap and paused—Niccolò was already sprawled out on his bedroll, snoring lightly against his pillow. A little fire wisp fluttered overhead. Gil released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, dropping the flap behind him and lowering himself onto his own bedroll.

“Nic?” he asked softly.

The Inquisitor grunted, rubbing his face against his pillow before lifting his head, blinking blearily. “…Mn? Gil. Did you settle—whatever it was?”

“Yeah. I did.” Gil scooted a little closer. “Nic?”

Niccolò propped his head on his folded arms, offering Gilberto a smile. “Hm?”

Gil inhaled slowly. He had a thousand things he wanted to say, a thousand offers to make. He wanted to hold the man they’d named the Inquisitor. He wanted to kiss. He wanted to feel Niccolò’s body on his, run hands through his hair, trail his mouth across warm skin. He wanted to—he wanted _other_ things. 

“Can I touch your scars?” Oh. Stupid. Stupid, _stupid_. He was backtracking before Nic could say a word, holding up a hand when he saw the brief flash of—fuck, what _was_ that in Nic’s eyes? “No. Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m shit at this, Nic, I’m sorry.”

“Gilberto,” Nic murmured, sitting up, and Gil stilled when Nic’s marked hand covered his. “It’s alright. I just—I’m not there. Yet. What happened to my back, it…”

“You don’t have to say anything, it’s okay, I—”

“No. Listen.” Nic squeezed his hand, and Gil fell silent. “I’m—attracted. To you. Very much. And you—the fact that you’ve stayed to see this through, it… says a great deal about you. About your character. You’re—you’re a good man, Gilberto.”

Gil quirked a smile. “I’m a knife-eared corpse thief.”

“Yes. _And_ a good man.” Niccolò lifted his other hand, hesitated—and then brushes his knuckles softly along Gil’s jaw. “Things—happened to me. In Ostwick. Things I’d rather not relive just yet. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just…be here.”

“Yeah,” Gilberto murmured, turning his hand over so he could lace their fingers together. Nic’s mark felt warm against his. “Me too.”

 

* * *

“Ugh. This is _ridiculous_.”

“This,” Dorian said, placing a fork and lining it up neatly beside the plate, “is Tevinter. Lyera, be a love and pass me the soup spoons?”

She passed him the box wordlessly, head down, scowling at him when he grinned. As it turned out, having one Cullen Rutherford in the room rendered her entirely incapable of speech. Interesting, that. The commander did slow laps around the table, a frown on his face as he surveyed the table settings, and Lyera all but scuttled to keep out of his way.

“I always did like Tevinter’s social mannerisms,” Josephine said brightly, admiring the silver soup spoons and straightening those that Dorian’s hawk-like eye somehow managed to overlook. 

“Yes, it’s all very pleasant when we manage to stop trying to kill one another long enough to enjoy a meal,” Dorian quipped, polishing a goblet on his leathers before replacing it delicately. “Now then, Ambassador, make note. The spoons are arranged in the order the diner may need to use them, and the goblets are placed—”

“To the right of every plate,” Josie finished, making a note on her board with a flourish, “notwithstanding those who favor the left, of course.”

“Yes, we are, unfortunately, tragically underrepresented by the tableware.” Dorian lifted his head, next lecture interrupted by a scout scurrying in through the door, skidding to a stop at Cullen’s side. 

“Commander,” she said, breathless, “Templars, ser—by the gates.”

“New recruits?” Josephine queried.

“I’ll see to them,” Cullen said, nodding the scout toward the door. “Dorian, I wonder if you would accompany me.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow upward. “Lyera, finish the table settings, will you?”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she groaned, but huffily carried the box of silverware to Josephine. 

Dorian strode out after Cullen, tucking his arms behind his back and shooting the commander his most charming grin. “If you wanted the pleasure of my company, Commander Rutherford, you had but to ask.”

“As—delightful—as I find you, Lord Pavus, the Inquisitor has requested that we greet all incoming Templars and mages with just that—a Templar and a mage. I’m merely following orders.” 

“Rather a wise request. Best we make a strong, united front, Templar and mage alike. I daresay Niccolò’s getting good at this.”

“Yes,” Cullen said, offering him a somewhat rueful smile, “I daresay he is.”

They trooped out of the castle proper and down across the grounds, headed for the front gates. Dorian shivered against the light chill, turning up his collar and folding his arms, tucking his hands against his sides. 

“I see the weather still doesn’t agree with you.”

“To be fair, it’s probably I that don’t agree with it. My kinsman will have no shortage of complaints, I’m sure. On the bright side, their taste of Ferelden weather should be enough to dissuade any chatter of an invasion.”

Cullen stopped in his tracks, staring open-mouthed at Dorian, who paused and turned back to face him. “Wh—there isn’t talk of invading Ferelden in Tevinter. Is there?”

“There’s talk of invading _everyone_ in Tevinter,” Dorian chuckled. “The Imperium is very much occupied with fending off the Qun, however. You needn’t worry.”

Cullen nodded, but the wariness didn’t leave his eyes. He fell into step beside Dorian once more, and they closed the distance to the gates.

Dorian had rather expected an entire battalion of Templars, runaways who had escaped the lure of red lyrium and Samson’s reign, and was surprised to see a squadron of maybe ten hovering by the front gate. Cullen brushed his cloak back—exposing the heavy bastard sword hanging on his hip—and brushed aside the lieutenant who hurried forward to greet him.

“I’m Command Cullen Rutherford,” he said, coming to a halt before the ragtag cluster of refugees, “in charge of the Inquisition’s forces.” He turned just enough to extend a hand toward Dorian. “Lord Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, one of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Who among you is in command?”

The assembled group looked around at one another. One of them—a man, Dorian thought, even though his helmet obscured most of his features—nudged another forward. The Templar shuffled toward Cullen a few steps and snapped one hand up in a brisk—albeit tired—salute.

“Commander. I suppose I’m the closest we’ve got to one in charge.”

Dorian stepped up to Cullen’s shoulder. The Templar—a woman, he figured, from the pleasant alto timber of her voice—didn’t so much as flinch when he came closer. No fear of mages, this one, and he was a little relieved.

“What’s your name, soldier? And former station?”

“I haven’t a name that means anything in Ferelden, Commander,” she replied. Something about her speech—clipped, brisk, the emphasis falling strangely upon each consonant—struck some kind of chord, but Dorian couldn’t place why it sounded familiar. “I—we—are of the Free Marches. We served the Ostwick circle of magi.” 

Cullen hummed, folding his arms across his impressive chest. “You’re a long way from home, ser. What brings you to Skyhold? And what, soldier, is your name?”

She hesitated—and then reached up, ignoring the ripple of tension from Cullen’s troops, and pulled off her helmet, letting it drop into the frosted grass. She was lovely, Dorian thought—didn’t have to be interested to see that much. Her hair fell in dark curls to her shoulders, and grey eyes the color of a storm  scowled up at them from beneath a noble brow.

“My name is Margherita Trevelyan,” she retorted, resting a hand on her sword, “and I’m looking for my brother.”

 


End file.
